


Soundtrack for a Road Trip

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Monsters, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Mutual Pining, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23699761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Giving “Jaskier” a ride was a mistake, Geralt thought, after the first hour on the road. To be perfectly honest, he was already uneasy about the whole thing ten minutes in. The man never stopped talking. Ever. Geralt briefly wondered if he could step on the brakes and make him bite his tongue, but he wasn’t even sure it would shut him up.Road trip / modern AU in a post-apocalyptic America where monsters roam free and gas is hard to find...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, it's a modern AU. With monsters.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” a smaller man said, seemingly unfazed when Geralt bumped shoulders with him and pushed the door to the restroom of the gas station as if he didn’t even exist.

It looked like a scene from a horror movie. It was as if a pack of rabid animals had been set loose, tearing bodies to shred. There were two of them, adult males by the look of it, now reduced to mangled things covered in blood and flies. It was horrifying, and Geralt whispered a quiet “fuck” between his teeth.

“Told you!” the stranger said from the other side. His voice had a strange sing-song quality that didn’t go with the whole gruesome attack.

Geralt still washed his hands and face at the derelict sink, because the blood spatter was mostly on the opposite wall. The heat was relentless, and the dust from the desert was getting in his hair, making him feel dirty all the time. That, and killing mutant beasts on the road didn’t help. He still had some work ahead of it, given the state of the room he walked into.

“Are you going to Vegas?” the stranger asked as soon as Geralt came out of the restroom. “I could do with a ride.”

Geralt didn’t care, and so he didn’t even bother answering. He just hummed through his teeth and passed a wet hand through his tangled hair.

“You don’t talk much, right,” the stranger continued, having followed him into the small shop. “You’re famous, you know? I recognized you immediately,” he said.

 _Great, now he had a fan_ , Geralt sighed and tried to ignore him, but it was hard. He was… loud. And expressive, smiling and waving his hands around, as if he had just met an old friend. Geralt didn’t answer, but he kept an eye on him, and he saw what the cashier failed to notice – a bored teenager watching TV on the overhead monitor, instead of watching his customers. The stranger was lifting food from the shelves, quite deftly at that. Various items went into his jean pockets, then his guitar case. Geralt wondered despite himself if he really had a guitar in that, or if it was just for show.

He looked tired and frayed, though, despite the gaudiness of his orange shirt and the enthusiasm of his speech. Geralt could see hints of sunburn on his bare arms and on his neck. His leather shoes weren’t made for long walks either, and he hoped he wasn’t hitchhiking on the side of the Arizona highway in this attire. Then he shook those thoughts out of his head – it wasn’t his problem. He was done meddling in other people’s affairs.

“So, going West? Can I tag along?” the annoying man insisted with a bright smile.

“Gas?” Geralt asked the cashier, more a growl than a question. The boy just shrugged and nodded toward a small placard that read, “We apologize for the current shortages.”

Roads hadn’t been safe for a long time, so that was to be expected. Smaller places weren’t re-supplied as often as they used to, and no one seemed to care anymore.

“Do you even know what happened in the restroom?” Geralt asked no one in particular. He put several bottles of booze on the counter.

“I called the cops like yesterday,” the dispassionate cashier said. Then he just shrugged again and rang the articles.

Jaskier made a sound that sounded like a snort, and he launched into a poetic tirade about “things that go bump into the night” – he had a thing for vampires apparently.

“Those don’t exist, you know,” Geralt said, leaving a few crumpled notes on the counter.

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t drop dead on their own,” Jaskier remarked, and he followed with cookies in every pocket and a smile on his face. “Witcher’s opinion, what do you think killed them?”

Apparently not getting any answer wasn’t a problem for the shoplifter. He followed Geralt all the way to his car, parked out front in the empty parking lot out, blabbering about monsters, secret experiments and governmental conspiracies. Geralt wasn’t privy to any secrets. He just killed monsters.

“What do you think you are doing?” he said, cold anger seeping in his voice.

The stranger stopped dead in his tracks and looked up from the other side of the pickup, his hand still on the passenger door. His eyes looked so blue all of a sudden, and he seemed so young and sad and tired. He didn’t beg, though, he was probably too proud for that. He just stared and flinched when Geralt got into the car himself, seething because of what he was about to say.

“Get in the car,” he growled.

The other man hesitated. _Something_ howled in the distance, and the setting sun was turning everything as red as the desert around.

“Now,” Geralt repeated, turning on the ignition.

The young man scrambled to open the door, smiling again and clutching his guitar case.

*

Giving “Jaskier” a ride was a mistake, Geralt thought, after the first hour on the road. To be perfectly honest, he was already uneasy about the whole thing ten minutes in. The man never stopped talking. Ever. Geralt briefly wondered if he could step on the brakes and make him bite his tongue, but he wasn’t even sure it would shut him up.

“And that’s how I ended up ‘touring’ in New Mexico,” Jaskier continued, making air quotes as he spoke.

“It’s ghoul territory,” Geralt remarked. He immediately regretted it because it meant he had been actually listening to anything the musician was saying. But he had killed a nest of ghouls a while back, nasty things, and he thought it was worth mentioning.

“Don’t I know it!” Jaskier lamented. “And then Marx decided to ditch me and follow his dreams of a solo career. I hope he drops dead,” Jaskier continued with a dejected look. Not that Geralt was looking at him in the rear-view mirror or anything. He had a very expressive face.

“Marx?” Geralt asked – not that he really cared, but he felt like he had missed a few steps in the never ending story of Jaskier’s misadventures.

“My nemesis,” Jaskier stressed, raising an eyebrow. “He’s a terrible lyricist and his voice sounds like a dying cat which has been…”

Geralt tuned out the many terrible faults of Valdo Marx and kept his eyes on the road. The needle of the radiator was dangerously high, the fuel tank nearly empty, and the next town still very far away. He was probably clear of the hunting grounds of whatever killed those poor souls in the restroom back east, but he’d rather avoid having to walk at night. He hoped he could push the car a little bit more.

“Maybe I could write a song about you,” Jaskier suddenly said out of the blue – or maybe not, Geralt wasn’t listening anymore. “The Butcher of the I-10…”

Geralt winced. What happened on that highway was bloody and awful and he didn’t like the nickname people gave him because of it.

“But it’s not really catchy, you know,” Jaskier continued, seemingly oblivious to the way Geralt’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, or how his jaw stiffened. “But it goes with the profession I guess.”

Anger boiled in him, overheated like his poor car. He slammed the brakes and stopped the car on the side of the road. Then, before he could stop himself, his hand shot up, gripped the back of Jaskier’s head and bashed it into the dashboard of the car. He released him immediately, trying not to hate himself for this display of violence. He was only proving that the nickname was well deserved.

Jaskier made pained noise – of course he wouldn’t keep quiet – and put his head back, feeling for anything broken. He wasn’t even bleeding. Geralt threw him a sideways glance and saw him flinch, just once, when he flung the door open and got out of the car.

“Roach needs to cool down,” he said, his voice gruff.

“You named your car Roach? That’s so lame,” Jaskier said with a scoff. He followed him out with a wary look.

“Don’t listen to him,” Geralt said, his head under the popped up hood, not liking what he was seeing.

“And he talks to it,” Jaskier mocked.

“Careful, if you don’t want to sleep outside the car,” Geralt warned. It could get quite cold in the desert at night, and he probably wouldn’t have the heart to leave the musician out all night, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Wait, we’re staying here?” Jaskier asked, with just a hint of panic in his voice. “In the middle of nowhere?” he continued, spreading his arms and looking around in disbelief.

“There is no ‘we’,” Geralt grumbled, wiping his hands on his dark trousers. “I’m done driving for the day.”

*

At first, Geralt thought Jaskier didn’t want to spend the night in a cramped car with a brooding mutant who just tried to bash his face in, but he soon realized it was because he was afraid of the dark. He briefly wondered where else he had been forced to sleep on the road.

There was a (very short) debate about who was going to sleep in the back. The pickup had a platform – under it was a stash of weapons and ammo, some drugs and way too many bottles of alcohol. Jaskier begrudgingly settled in the passenger seat, while Geralt took the slightly roomier space at the back.

The silence of the desert seemed overwhelming for a moment. But Jaskier was truly unable to shut up, and he started chatting again about nothing, once it became clear that the witcher wasn’t actually going to toss his ass outside. And it wasn’t for lack of appearing threatening on Geralt’s part – maybe the musician was too stupid to have any sense of self preservation. Getting strangled inside the car by an annoyed Geralt was currently a bigger threat than anything roaming the highway nearby.

Jaskier was a weird creature, and maybe, as Geralt lay in the back and looked anywhere but at his animated face and bright blue eyes, maybe he was a little bit curious about it. So he allowed the musician to get his guitar out of his case, “to entertain them with some tunes.” He was expecting a bad rendition of “Wonderwall”, but he was certainly not expecting… whatever suddenly filled the silence of the car.

Geralt shifted and turned his head to look at Jaskier, surprised by the instrument in his hands.

“Why is it so small?”

“What?” Jaskier stopped plucking the cords and looked at him, haloed by the harsh light of the overhead lamp.

Geralt nodded to the tiny guitar in Jaskier’s hands.

“It’s a ukulele,” Jaskier said, with a laugh.

“If you say so.”

“Had to sell my guitar a while back,” Jaskier explained with a sad shrug.

“Anyway, this one is a new song…” and he resumed singing, his voice clear, loud and bright like the rest of his person. “… so hide under the covers, we don’t know what’s out there, could be ghosts or monsters, or…”

“I’m pretty sure no ghosts live in the desert,” Geralt interrupted with a critical frown.

“Could be,” Jaskier answered with a wink, and he resumed singing his weird song.

*

By the time the first rays of dawn appeared, neither of them had slept much. Geralt had silently kept watch – there had been a pack of ghouls at the top of the hill, their eyes shining in the dark, hesitating to attack.

Geralt was never that worried, he had weapons stashed everywhere, but he wasn’t sure how his unwanted guest would react. In the end he was glad he didn’t have to chase him down in the dark because he got spooked and took off, or any other dumb moves humans were bound to make when faced with the horrible reality of the world.

Then Geralt thought about Jaskier’s absolute lack of reaction to the mangled bodies in the restroom back east, and he briefly doubted his initial assessment.

“Roll?” Jaskier offered. He had yawned and stretched like a cat, taking so much space in the cramped car, as if he was making up for size with so much noise and energy.

Geralt made a face and turned the offer down, because he knew where the stale pastry came from and where it had been all this time. Jaskier shrugged and ate the whole thing in one go, which was absolutely disgusting – but also maybe a little considerate because it avoided any crumbs.

“So, what’s the verdict, dear witcher?” Jaskier asked, as Geralt checked on the engine once more, which was still terribly worse for wear. But he loved that car, and he didn’t want to look for a new one just yet.

“I need some parts to fix the radiator,” he simply said.

Jaskier packed his things, eager to follow like an overgrown puppy, and Geralt briefly wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just leave him in the car. Walking to the nearest station apparently meant more songs to “give them courage” and Geralt just sighed and tried to think about something else.

At one point Jaskier started complaining about the heat, and even though Geralt hadn’t planned on sharing what little water he had left, he ended up giving some to Jaskier, just to stop hearing about his parched throat.

Geralt was used to being called a beast and getting rejected and feared, so Jaskier’s interest was unnerving and strange. It was like the smaller man was expecting something from him, despite only receiving grunts and physical violence. Geralt didn’t comment on the music or the singing – it sounded pleasant enough, but who was he to judge anything artistic. He wore black leather in the sun, liked guns and talked to his car. So he didn’t answer when Jaskier asked for pointers or remarks, because the simple act of creation was alien to him. He was made to destroy, maim and kill. He wasn’t made to converse and have friends.

“What do we do if you fix the car and then we run out of gas?” Jaskier asked, when they finally reached a town away from the deserted highway.

“There is no ‘we’,” Geralt stressed once more, feeling like it was already a lost battle. He tried to sound angry to hide the fact that he had no clue – maybe he’d walk some more, maybe he’d find some contraband pump somewhere and pay with gold teeth or something.

“You don’t know, do you?” Jaskier continued, with an amused smile on his sunburned face.

The town looked like any other in this part of the state. A semi-ghost town, with a few stragglers who had refused to leave their houses behind, but not much to see except decaying walls and closed down shops.

It smelled like death and burned rubber, gun oil and danger.

“Put your guitar away,” Geralt said, his tone serious.

He briefly wondered if Jaskier could use a gun, and if he should give him his spare pistol, because trouble was heading their way. And although they were not a team, he didn’t want to have to worry about him.

Jaskier threw him a questioning look but complied. He must have sensed something too; he wouldn’t have survived that long on the road by being as helpless as he appeared. But then again, maybe he was only good at hiding and talking his way out of messy situations.

They walked down the main road – the only road, really – and everything was covered in brown dust, like the whole damn desert. But it didn’t take witcher senses to feel the eyes on them as they passed by, watching, assessing the threat or thinking of ways to rob them and get rid of their corpses.

And then he saw it, carved out in the bark of a dead tree, a sigil that meant “outlaw territory, get out”, courtesy of a previous visitor trying to warn the next witcher to step foot in this town. He tensed, and Jaskier stopped walking, watching someone standing in the middle of the street up ahead. He was going to wave his hand and greet them, the fool, when Geralt grabbed the collar of his orange shirt and hissed, “Run.”

But Jaskier wiggled out of his grip. He turned around, looking outraged at the rough treatment. He put his hand on his hips and was about to launch in a tirade, but they had no time for that.

“Jaskier, run,” Geralt repeated louder this time, and he flung the musician in the direction where they came from.

It was only logical; he couldn’t fight and protect him at the same time, so he needed him out of the way.

“Run where?” he heard Jaskier squeak, but then he thankfully set off sprinting.

Geralt got his colt out of his shoulder holster – bullets were usually enough to deter human opponents. The approaching silhouette morphed into a mean looking bandit. Clad in black, he wore his hair long like Geralt, but there was something twisted in his eye. Singular. The other had been gouged a long time ago and only gnarly scar tissue remained. It was the kind of man who would cut the fingers off an innocent kid and laugh while doing it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the second floor of an adjacent building. Someone behind a window, probably putting him in his sight with a rifle right now. He couldn’t hear Jaskier anymore, so he pushed him out of his head.

“I’m here for gas,” he said, raising his voice slightly because the other man was still far away. It was only half a lie. He had spotted an auto repair shop, and he still hoped he could get there and out without drawing blood.

“Nice weapon,” the bandit replied, his tone casual.

“Not for sale,” Geralt growled, tightening his grip on the gun. It was loaded with silver bullets, useful against ghouls, wolves and wannabee warlords. But the other scoffed and asked, “Do you even know how much you’re wanted for, Geralt of Rivia?”

 _Fuck_ , Geralt thought. He knew there were bounties on his head but he didn’t think anyone would be dumb enough to try and collect them.

He was about to try and reason with him, maybe pay him off, when all hell broke loose and bullets started whizzing past his ear. He dodged and ran to the repair shop, kicking the door open. He needed to get out of this town, but not without what he came for. He didn’t want to have to kill a bunch of thugs who thought they could capture a witcher, but he sure didn’t want to walk all the way to Vegas.

The shop was dusty and mostly empty – ransacked long ago when the town died, like so many others along the highway. It wasn’t safe to live out there anymore and most people moved to bigger cities.

He grabbed a wrench and jammed the doors closed. Then he looked around for anything useful. He found half empty bottles of what looked like bootleg alcohol. He sniffed one, took a gulp – for morale – and started stuffing the neck of the bottles with dirty rags. Nothing said leave me alone like homemade Molotov cocktails.

Finding a radiator cap that looked slightly less cracked and corroded than the one barely holding up in his own car took even less time. The back of the shop was full of spare parts, just as Geralt had hoped. In those troubled times, people had to make do, and anything half functioning was suddenly worth keeping.

Now he just had to surprise them enough to be able to make an escape without having to kill them all. Even though they probably deserved it, a little voice chimed in his head. And that’s when he heard the rapping on the other side of the doors, almost polite. But his ears were trained, and he soon picked up other sounds behind, more distressing – feet shuffling in the dirt, ruffled clothes and heavy breathing. He had a bad feeling, immediately confirmed by the falsely friendly voice of the bandits’ chief.

“Come out, witcher, and we won’t harm your friend too much.”

“Geralt, don’t! They– ow!”

A resounding smack silenced Jaskier for now, but Geralt didn’t doubt he would start blabbering again in an instant. _This… wasn’t ideal_ , he thought. That’s why partnering up was a bad idea, connections were always a liability others enjoyed using against you.

And now he couldn’t just throw his makeshift explosives, not with the musician he barely knew in the middle.

“Nah, I think I’m going to stay here,” he said, just to piss them off and stall a little.

He could hear hushed discussions outside, and Jaskier fretting again. Then one of the men started pounding on the metal doors, making them rattle, but the wrench kept them close.

“I think your friend has something to tell you,” an amused voice said. And Geralt sighed. He was killing them after all.

“Yeah, sing us a song!” another voice cheered.

“Uh, Geralt? I wouldn’t come out if I were you,” Jaskier said, his voice strained. “But I could also use a little help right now–” He abruptly stopped talking to bite down a scream, and Geralt imagined snapping their necks with his bare hands just to make it stop.

“He’s not my friend,” he affirmed instead, hating himself for it.

“So you won’t mind if we… damage him a little?” And the bastard almost sounded disappointed.

“No, don’t!” Jaskier shouted, and then he cried out. Geralt wasn’t sure he was imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard the crack of the bone. He could picture Jaskier, sagging in the grip of those bastards, barely holding him up.

“I–” Geralt started, not sure if he could keep up the act. He moved closer to the doors, feeling his resolve crumble.

“Ow! The little fuck bit me!”

Geralt chuckled. Maybe he could work with that after all. He grabbed a tool on the bench, then knocked on the metal doors and said, “Alright, stop that. I’m coming out. Help me with the doors.”

Amazingly, he actually heard footsteps coming closer. He put the muzzle of an air compressor through the crack and shot a bolt right between the eyes of the closest bandit. Then he grabbed the wrench holding the doors secure, and threw it as well as soon as he got out. The crack it made when it connected with an enemy forehead was very satisfying.

The one-eyed freak turned out to be a spineless leader, because he decided to cut his loses and run away, leaving his friends behind. Jaskier stood in the middle of it all, cradling his arm and blinking like a deer in headlights.

No one was shooting at them, either because they were too stupid to react or because their marksman decided to run too. If he could get Jaskier out of the way, they might be able to make an escape. He got his lighter out.

“Can you run?” Geralt growled.

“They broke my arm, not my legs,” came the sassy reply.

“Then go,” Geralt said.

And he threw the first bottle on the ground between him and the nearest bad guy. The burst of flames licked at the feet of the men, and the ones writhing on the floor had to crawl farther to avoid catching fire.

“That’s what happens when you follow a moron and a coward,” he told the others. “Your boss left you behind at the first sign of danger, so why are you still fighting me?”

He started running after Jaskier, throwing the second bottle just to make sure they wouldn’t be followed.

*

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked when he caught up with the musician. He could run quite fast for a surprisingly long time.

Jaskier looked unsteady now, his face sweaty, as he clutched his left arm to keep it close to his body. Running must have hurt like hell. And yet the first words out of his mouth were excited ones.

“That was in-sane!” Jaskier said, stressing his words, his eyes wide. “Incredible!” Jaskier continued, his face animated with an emotion the witcher couldn’t place.

 _Here it comes_ , Geralt thought, _that moment just after people got to see what he was capable of, when they decided he was too scary and dangerous to be around. A freak._

“I’m so going to write a song about it,” Jaskier said, taking a step towards him.

He nearly tripped over his own feet, so Geralt guided him to a rock and helped him sit down. And Jaskier didn’t shake him off, instead he leaned against him. Trusting. And Geralt didn’t know what to make of it.

“Won’t they follow us? Shouldn’t we run farther?” Jaskier asked from where he sat, with very little intention of getting up by the looks of it.

“I think they’ll try to catch their runaway boss first. I caused some dissension in their ranks.”

“That, and a lot of injuries,” Jaskier laughed. “I didn’t know you were so crafty,” he said, and he sounded genuinely amazed.

“Here,” Geralt said, and he presented Jaskier with a neatly rolled joint. “For the pain,” he explained, when Jaskier looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“You really are full of surprises,” Jaskier said.

He let Geralt light the blunt for him and took a drag. He coughed like a teenager, his eyes watering a little.

“So this whole time, you could have just shut me up by giving me some weed?” he asked.

He sounded curious, as if getting drugged by a witcher was something he had always wanted to try. Somehow, Geralt doubted a tripping Jaskier would be silent. He just shrugged.

“Show me your arm,” he said.

He was half expecting the other man to start giving him a hard time; instead, Jaskier obeyed, looking calm and a little stoned already.

It was probably shock, but maybe he just wasn’t as fragile and useless as he had seemed, Geralt thought, feeling the wrist for any deformities. His hands ran lightly further up the forearm. The skin had a purplish color and it was already swelling. It was a small fracture, and the bones were still aligned. Nothing time and a splint wouldn’t fix. And some more potent drugs, back in the trunk of his pickup.

“It’s broken, isn’t it?” Jaskier asked with a dejected look. “Not the first time this happened,” he added, when he felt Geralt’s curious eyes on him. “Last time is actually a funny story,” he continued, with the hint of a smile, as if it was a fond memory. “I was singing in a bar in Tampa, and there was this woman in the backroom who could…”

For the sake of his sanity, Geralt chose not to listen to the rest, and he helped the musician back on his feet. He was a little wobbly, but talking seemed to distract him, which was probably for the best.

*

He hooked Jaskier up with some Percocet and splinted his arm, then he began working on the car. The musician said he was flattered to be tended to first, but to Geralt it only made sense. The car wasn’t complaining.

Replacing the radiator cap with the new one took very little time compared to the trouble he went through to get it. It wasn’t a pretty fix, but it should hold until the next town. While he worked on the car, Jaskier stayed slumped in the passenger seat, playing the guitar – ukulele, Geralt corrected – with one hand. It didn’t sound very good.

Then he drove west again, towards the setting sun, hopefully towards a place with light, food and fuel. He wouldn’t even mind some people, as long as they didn’t want to kill him. The shadows grew taller, shrouding the land in an air of mystery that didn’t bode well.

There were signs for a gas station at the next exit, but he could see in the distance that it looked abandoned. Maybe there was still something to salvage there.

“We stopping?” Jaskier asked, slurring his words a little, whether because of sleep or the painkillers.

“Stay in the car,” Geralt ordered, as he checked his gun and put it back in its holster.

The only answer he got was a non-committal mumble and he decided to pretend it meant yes. He got out and the idea of locking the doors crossed his mind, but it would make the musician his responsibility, and he wasn’t going down that path anymore.

The pumps were out of order, yellow tape flapping in the wind where it got loose. The low building next to it was barricaded and hadn’t seen any customers in months, maybe years. He got around it, checking for any parked cars he could siphon.

That’s when he heard footsteps at his back, the sound very faint yet unmistakable to any trained ear. He gripped his gun, half hoping it was Jaskier, but knowing deep down that it wasn’t. Ghouls. Probably tracking them for a while now. He hoped Jaskier wouldn’t roll down a window waiting for him, and turned to face the beast.

It was a sorry sight, if monsters could be pitied. It looked famished, and that was probably what had driven it to such lengths. He shot it point blank before it could even bare its rotten teeth. He was expecting the second one which was looming in the shadow of the building, because ghouls rarely hunted alone.

The third one, however, took him by surprise as it jumped him from the roof. It would have taken a bite of his shoulder, if it weren’t for the heavy leather he wore. He kicked, his foot connecting with mushy soft tissue. The thing keened and tried to claw him to shreds, but he managed to get a shot at it, winding it.

He growled, baring his teeth in the night, as the wounded ghoul ran away and disappeared into the desert. With the threat gone for now, Geralt got to his feet and put his gun away. Life was easier before ghouls started preying on the living as well as the dead.

As he came back to his car with a jerrycan of gas, he was half expecting Jaskier to be cheering on him from the roof of the pickup or something. But the musician was fast asleep in the car where he had left him, curled up around his guitar case.

He drove in silence for a while. Then he started humming one of Jaskier’s songs, the notes barely audible, and he could have sworn he saw the musician smile in his sleep. Geralt would deny everything and blame it on the drugs afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was inspired by [this pretty fanart](https://flurgburgler.tumblr.com/post/614241204804222976/commissioned-to-draw-some-modern-au-witcher-antics). Then it escaped me. There is totally going to be a sequel of sorts, but I'm a slow writer...  
> Big thanks to my two beta readers.  
> And you can drop me a line if you liked it (or not) :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they meet dangerous people at a roadside bar.

Triss hadn’t even finished her morning coffee when she heard the backdoor rattle. Only a few select friends knew to use that entrance, so she prepared for the worst and came down from her upstairs apartment. The clinic was still closed but she could hear the animals fretting in their cages, restless. She already hated that unannounced visitor; most people had the decency to call it in first.

“I’m armed,” she informed the intruder through the door.

She switched on the lights, her shotgun heavy against her thigh, pointed at whoever was waiting behind the door.

“He is too,” someone said.

She didn’t recognize the voice. But then she heard a growl, and a hushed, “Shut up.”

“Geralt?” she asked.

“Could do with a little help,” he said.

He sounded upset but not injured. They usually met in circumstances involving blood loss and gaping wounds. In any case, that explained the lack of a heads up, as Geralt had a thing against communication.

She buzzed them in and watched that tower of a man who called himself a witcher stumble in, holding up a smaller man who looked the worse for wear. Geralt pushed him around, looking contrite and annoyed at the same time, a difficult feat. He smelled of blood, and under the harsh light of the clinic, she could see his leather jacket was covered in it. But it was all dried up, and he didn’t move stiffly, so it was probably not his.

“Can you fix him?” Geralt asked, guiding the other man until he was sitting on her exam bed. He nearly toppled over and Geralt shot an arm up to stabilize him without even looking.

Her eyes roamed over the stranger, taking in the hunched frame and the bruised forearm. Lines of pain were etched on his youthful face, and he was sweating despite the coolness of the morning.

“I’ll be right back,” Triss said with a nod.

When she came back with her portable X-ray machine, the young man was talking to Geralt with a smile on his face, his good arm waving about for emphasis.

“… and that’s when I discovered that she was married. I went right over the balcony.”

“Who?” Triss asked.

“A woman he cheated with,” Geralt said, sounding terribly weary and resigned. “Jaskier has been telling me about all the times he got injured. I think he’s trying to make me feel better for the arm.”

“And you broke his arm why?” Triss couldn’t help but ask. She caught the fleeting look of hurt on Geralt’s face.

“He didn’t,” Jaskier assured. “He did try to break my nose,” he added as an afterthought.

“I gave him Percocet,” Geralt shrugged. As if that could explain that weird conversation.

She told Geralt to move aside so that she could take images of his companion’s broken bone. She could feel him hovering close, keeping an eye on her. He was always so distrustful, it was like he couldn’t help it.

She undid the makeshift splint, not stopping when Jaskier winced. She preferred tending to animals over humans; she had been told she lacked bedside manners. But the people who came to her secret clinic were less demanding than regular patients.

“Why don’t you go wash up?” she told Geralt, pointing at the other door with her chin. She eyed the X-ray images with a frown. “I’ll have to make a cast, it will be a while,” she added because he looked unsure. His companion just nodded and that seemed to decide him.

“So,” she said, gathering what she needed to treat his arm properly, “riding with Geralt? Dangerous business.”

She was trying to be casual, but she couldn’t hide the curiosity in her voice. Geralt was a loner, that much she knew about him. Yet he seemed uncharacteristically fond of Jaskier, in a gruff and silent way.

“He’s interesting,” Jaskier shrugged, then hissed when it jolted his arm. He lay back on the cot and looked at the ceiling for a while. “But I don’t think he likes me very much,” he added with a frown.

“Oh he likes you,” Triss said without looking at him.

“How do you know?”

“Well, he didn’t leave you by the side of the highway, for starters.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Jaskier said. “He’s nicer than you think.”

He seemed to mull over the thought, while she finished her examination.

“Do you know that he kills monsters?” he asked in a whisper, his bright blue eyes glistening as he looked back at Triss.

She laughed.

“Of course I know Geralt is a witcher,” she confirmed. “The man stands out anywhere like a sore thumb and makes nothing to hide his true occupation. There were a bunch of them at first, but they all fell out of touch when the satellites went offline,” she recalled. “They call themselves witchers but they are only bloodthirsty maniacs if you ask me.” There was no malice in her words though, only exasperated fondness.

“He’s giving me a ride,” Jaskier said. “We’re going to Vegas.”

Triss didn’t argue. It was odd for Geralt to let a scrawny hitchhiker hop into his beloved car, and even more so to seek medical help for him. But she had given up on trying to understand him a long time ago. He was probably high on another guilt trip as always. Maybe Jaskier, with his easy smile and eagerness to know him reminded him of…

She forced herself not to finish the thought and focused on the task at hand.

“It might be sore for a while,” she explained, as she started casting his forearm. Jaskier just sighed and looked away.

They heard rummaging in the other room, and Triss said, “Geralt, I hope you’re not helping yourself to my narcotics cabinet.”

“Do you have any ketamine?” came the unhelpful reply.

“Geralt, that’s for horses!” Triss exclaimed. She sounded indignant and Jaskier opened wide eyes.

“Is he a drug addict?” he asked in a small voice. He didn’t look disgusted or scared, Triss thought. Mostly curious.

“It helps on the job,” Geralt said with a shrug as he came back in the room.

“I hope you’re getting paid,” Triss sighed.

Geralt neither confirmed nor denied, but she knew she wouldn’t get any payment herself today.

Still, she carefully finished casting Jaskier’s forearm, even if he didn’t look like he had a penny to his name either. Poor kid needed a nap and better friends, in her opinion.

“Who’s up for breakfast?” she asked despite herself – mainly because she was hungry and didn’t feel like kicking them out that quickly.

Geralt grunted something that sounded like approval and Jaskier enthusiastically nodded. There went her food supplies as well, she thought.

*

“Why are you on the road anyway?” she asked Jaskier, who was stuffing his mouth full as if he feared she might change her mind.

“I should be singing in music halls and cabarets,” he lamented. “I should be sipping cocktails and winking at pretty people. I should be recognized in the streets and they should play my songs on the radio.” His face and free hand became more and more agitated as he spoke.

Geralt made a throaty sound, halfway between a cough and a laugh. He was nursing a mug of coffee – black. He did look cleaner than when he first barged in, with his white hair loosely tied up.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Triss pointed out.

“He’s going to Las Vegas,” Geralt finally said, his face serious and scrunched up as if he was trying to recall the musician’s exact words, “to participate in a music competition and humiliate a former bandmate.”

“Oh!” Jaskier said. “So you do listen after all!” He seemed genuinely baffled by that fact.

Geralt shrugged, as if to say, ‘Unfortunately’.

“Valdo is a fool,” Jaskier growled. “If he thinks he has any chances of winning anything with a voice as flat as his. I wish he could just disappear…”

“Talking about suspicious disappearances…” Triss started, and Geralt groaned. “I might have a job for you. Unpaid of course, you owe me a lot already.” She winked.

*

They left Triss’ clinic, Geralt with stolen drugs and Jaskier with gifted food, and made their way back to the car. The musician felt better now that he had eaten, his head was less cloudy, and he was starting to regret not asking more questions about witchers, because Triss seemed to know a great deal about them.

“Monsters,” Jaskier told Geralt, “make the best songs.”

The witcher scoffed, but Jaskier pressed on, explaining how turning danger into music was exalting and how source material was essential. “Love songs are overrated anyway,” he concluded with a pout.

Geralt threw him a quick look but didn’t say anything. Jaskier was aware he bragged and complained about past conquests a lot. He knew he was quick to love everyone and everything, and that was probably not always a good trait. He suddenly wanted to thank Geralt – for the ride, for not throwing him out in the desert – but he decided against it. He could still kick him to the curb.

“Where are we anyway?” Jaskier asked, when he realized he didn’t even know.

“Ash Springs,” Geralt said.

Now that was a mysterious name, Jaskier thought. And even if it was an ugly town, it had some potential for the trained eye. The overgrown weeds in the street and the colorful tags on the walls told a story to Jaskier. For Geralt, it probably meant danger and death, because he walked fast, shoulders tensed and eyes darting around. Jaskier tried to keep the chatter to a minimum but bottling his thoughts was an impossible task.

“So what do you think killed all those people?”

“Triss said they disappeared,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier was certain he already had an idea, he seemed well versed in the different monsters that roamed the ravaged country, and yet he refused to tell him. How infuriating.

“Some mutated beast swooping from the skies?” Jaskier suggested. “Or another pack of ghouls? What about an aghoul?”

He had heard those were rather dangerous, and he wondered if Geralt would let him come close enough to take some notes. Oh he wished he still had his polaroid camera…

“You’re not coming,” Geralt said.

“What?” Jaskier stopped in his tracks. “No, you can’t leave me here.” He looked around with forced emphasis. “It’s a dead town, no one will give me a ride!” He knew he was whining but he couldn’t help it. “I’ll keep quiet,” he pleaded, shaking his head, “so quiet you’ll even forget I’m here.”

Geralt kept trudging towards his truck, hidden in a narrow alleyway, not even turning around to look at him. Not physically pushing him back either. So Jaskier followed and squeezed past the wall to get in the passenger side, half expecting to get wrestled out. He grasped his guitar case and looked straight ahead, feeling like a stubborn fool.

Maybe it was shock and disbelief, or maybe the witcher was starting to like him a little, but Geralt sat down and turned on the ignition without a word. They drove a few miles before he spoke again.

“Next big city, you’re getting out of my car.”

“It’s a little harsh, don’t you think,” Jaskier tried, because he was stupid like that and he never knew when to stop. “I mean, if you’re going to Vegas and I’m going to Vegas, then why…”

“I can’t be responsible for you,” Geralt said, hands clasping the wheel like he was trying to stop an outburst of some kind.

“I’m not asking you to,” Jaskier pointed out. But he knew what the witcher meant. He was loud and colorful and all the things Geralt wasn’t. It wasn’t a good match. He shrugged and nodded. “Next big city.”

*

But they never reached any because a storm caught up with them first. Pollution and several catastrophes in the past decades had led to increased numbers of electric storms, especially in the desert. And this was going to be an epic one.

Strong winds were howling past the car, shaking the frame like the assault of a wild animal trying to get in. Then the rain started falling, acid and, quite frankly, a little bit scary. Jaskier had heard tales of unfortunate travelers caught in acid rain who had dissolved entirely until nothing but smoking bones remained. He hoped it was exaggeration, but he could swear the joints of the door were hissing.

The first strike of lightning made him realize how dark it had become. In a flash, the whole sky became bright as day, and then dark again, when thunder rumbled like an angry monster. He looked at Geralt, then at the menacing clouds all around. The witcher seemed tense, and that probably wasn’t a good sign.

Jaskier had really tried keeping quiet, but this was too scary not to comment.

“Maybe we should stop?” he said. As if to contradict him, another lightning bolt speared the sky, closely followed by the whipping crack of thunder. “Or not,” he added.

It was a one way conversation anyway. The witcher didn’t spare him a glance.

“Let’s just accelerate until we melt or get struck down,” Jaskier said, throwing his free hand up. The cast on his left arm was cumbersome, but the pain had lessened to a dull ache now, only spiking when he tried to wiggle his fingers.

Thunder rolled again and again, and the wipers made an ugly sound on the windshield.

“This can’t be good,” Jaskier commented out loud, craning his neck to see outside. “I think I see lights. There is a bar or something.”

“That’s where people vanished,” Geralt finally said.

“Oh. And you were hoping to ditch me before you checked the place out,” Jaskier realized. It made sense. “Does that mean I can come now?” He tried not to grin at the irony.

“It’s not like I have a choice now, is it?” Geralt replied with an annoyed huff.

*

Geralt pulled into the half empty parking lot in front of a low building with a corrugated iron roof and a wooden porch that had seen better days. There was a shed of sorts, probably meant to offer protection against the sun, rather than the rain, but he deemed it acceptable to park under it. A neon sign blinked forlornly in the brewing storm; even Roach couldn’t beat that sort of weather, and he didn’t want to push the poor car to its limits anyway.

He flung the truck door open and trudged towards the lit building. He didn’t mind the acid rain, it wasn’t too heavy yet, and he wore leather for a reason. Jaskier, on the other hand, sprinted out in front of him, holding his lute case close to his body and his cast arm above his face, the fool.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he yelled all the way.

He reached the first steps of the porch and started taking his shirt off, muttering swear words as he struggled with the smoking garment.

“Do you not feel pain?” he asked Geralt plaintively.

The witcher shrugged and joined him on the steps. He couldn’t help but look at Jaskier’s back, now littered with small blisters that looked like freckles on his pale skin. His ruined shirt lay at his feet, burned through in parts. It was way too orange anyway, so he told Jaskier just that, and watched his face crumble as if he had insulted his ancestors.

“Not my fault you’ve got no sense of fashion…” Jaskier muttered. “And what’s with that obsession with black anyway…”

Geralt still draped his terribly unfashionable black jacket over his shoulders and pushed him towards the door.

*

The room was dimly lit and more crowded than the parking lot would lead one to believe. Dust and cigarette smoke permeated the air. Rock music that Geralt didn’t recognize played in the background, drowning the patrons’ drunken conversations and the clink of glassware from behind the bar.

A few people looked at them when they came in, but they quickly lost interest, their thoughts muddled by alcohol. The barmaid, a brunette in a tight dress, raised her head and her eyes widened when she saw them. She put down glass and towel and came round to greet them, her smile predatory.

Geralt gritted his teeth. He didn’t like that look.

The barmaid zeroed in on them. Jaskier was still shaking rain out of his hair, half naked in the dim light. Geralt’s hand went to his holster on his flank, no longer hidden under his jacket. It was a reflex more than a conscious gesture. His fingers brushed the gun, unsure of what set him off like that. But the girl was clearly flirting, and Jaskier had a foolish smile on his young face.

“Can I offer you a drink? A shirt maybe?” she added with a giggle. “I guess it’s raining again then?”

Geralt let out an annoyed huff, and that’s when Jaskier spotted his hand next to his gun. He all but threw the borrowed jacket at the witcher, probably to hide his weapon from the girl, and he stepped in front of him.

Geralt forced his hand to uncurl and his face to relax, but Jasker still hissed, “What are you doing? She’s just a fan. I’m quite famous if you must know.”

He sounded so terribly proud and sure of himself that Geralt shrugged and let him follow the barmaid when she took his hand to “show him the backroom.”

The whole damn place was already getting on his nerves, so he helped himself to a bottle of whisky behind the bar. He filled a glass, downed it straight away and filled it again. That ought to take the edge off.

*

When the barmaid and Jaskier reappeared after some time, Geralt could have sworn he could see lipstick on the collar of his borrowed shirt. It was purple with tiny flowers and it looked quite girly, but strangely enough it suited him just fine. Not that Jaskier was effeminate – he wasn’t, not with that dark chest hair now peeking out of his open collar… Geralt drowned the rest of his thoughts by taking a swig directly from the bottle.

“So, Gwen here,” Jaskier gestured to his new friend, “tells me these nasty storms are quite frequent around here and usually last for days.”

He didn’t seem bothered at all by that news, and Geralt was already annoyed. The music was too loud and the alcohol barely palatable.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” he continued, patting Geralt lightly on the arm and ignoring his warning growl. “Not my fault.”

“My dad owns the motel round back,” Gwen explained, and Geralt briefly wondered just how young that girl was, draped over Jaskier as she was – but again it wasn’t his problem. “We have one room left.” Then she looked at the bottle and added, “I’ll put the drinks on your tab.” _Smart girl._

“I guess we’re bunk mates now,” Jaskier said, and he sounded way chirpier than he should have been.

“I’ll sleep in my car,” Geralt said. As if to contradict him, thunder rolled outside, close and menacing.

“Suit yourself,” Jaskier shrugged, and he pecked the barmaid on the neck. _Absolutely disgusting_. Geralt snatched the bottle and went to sulk in the darkest corner of this dive.

*

Jaskier was having fun right now; he was in charming company, as Gwen was quite enamored with his songs – who knew some people had put live recordings of his band on what remained of the Internet? He’ll have to check that someday.

He purposefully put on a show, because it seemed to annoy Geralt even more than having to stop here. He had seen how Geralt looked at him, with a sort of weird possessiveness in his eyes, and he basked in it. Being loved was nice, sure, but being desired was even more thrilling.

Or maybe he was just imagining things, he thought, when Geralt stormed away with a bottle of whisky and a growl – maybe he was just angry he couldn’t shoot anything or drive away just yet.

But he quickly forgot about it when Gwen took him by the hand to show him what she called the stage. In the back of the bar they had a nice little setting with lights and a microphone. There was an upright piano that had seen better days; the wood was cracked in places. Someone had left an overflowing ashtray and a notebook on top of it.

“Don’t,” Gwen warned, when Jaskier went to open it. “It’s Madeleine’s. She sings at the bar most nights.”

Jaskier nodded and sat down in front of the piano, his right hand hovering above the keys, not touching. “Go on,” Gwen pressed. “That, she won’t mind.”

And so he gave it a try, a quiet tune, but it wasn’t easy one handed. Gwen never asked what happened and Jaskier was grateful for that. He still felt bad for letting these ruffians grab him – he was usually better at running and hiding.

Gwen went back to tending the bar, with a quick kiss that was a promise of a sleepless night to come, and Jaskier continued toying with notes for a little while. He felt like singing, despite the lack of an audience; something about his recent adventures maybe…

“When a humble bard,” he tried, chuckling to himself because he was hardly humble, “graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this– woah!”

He stopped abruptly when a hard hand grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him up. He tumbled out of the chair and stumbled to find his footing.

“What the hell, Geralt?” The witcher shook him a little and released his grip. He looked irate, which, Jaskier knew, should have been frightening but somehow wasn’t. “Are you drunk?” Jaskier asked.

“Do not,” Geralt said, his voice low and menacing, “sing about me.”

“But how will I make you famous, dear witcher?” Jaskier said in a sing-song voice.

“Don’t,” Geralt repeated, and he pushed a crumpled piece of paper into Jaskier’s chest before turning away.

Jaskier watched him cross the room and heard the door slam. He wasn’t joking about sleeping in his car. He looked down at the paper in his hand; it was a small placard with a grainy picture of Geralt, probably taken from security footage. It said he was dangerous, and wanted for questioning. The reward made him whistle through his teeth, no wonder Geralt was on edge.

“Friend of yours?” a deep, feminine voice asked in his back, making him jump.

“Uh? What? No!” he mumbled quickly, hiding the poster in his jeans pocket. He raised his head – she was looking at the front door, she hadn’t seen the poster, or chose to ignore it.

“Are you the singer?” Jaskier asked, curious.

She wore a silk gown that looked like it belonged to a cocktail party, and her dark hair was tied in a messy bun, as if she had just woken up and hurriedly fixed it. Jaskier mentally kicked himself for being so inconstant, but she was drop dead gorgeous and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“I see you dabble yourself,” she said instead of answering. She put her elbows on top of the piano and her chin in her hands. “Maybe we could sing together later tonight.”

Jaskier beamed at that. He would certainly like that.

*

In the end, Geralt did get out to sleep in the car. The rain hadn’t abated, and he could barely hear the evening agitation, progressively dying down. Nobody drove away and everyone quickly retreated to their rooms at the motel.

Geralt dozed while listening to the ominous weather outside and thinking that maybe, all those lost people simply wandered into the desert during a storm and just died in little puddles of their own melted flesh, never to be found again.

Triss had been very vague about what had happened to all those people who vanished, but also quite specific about the road they were all last seen on. Geralt knew she had her own information network, and she liked to listen to police chatter on a short wave scanner. If she said that this area was bad news, it probably was. He just wondered what kind of threat he was up against – human or more monstrous.

At least Jaskier was enjoying himself, he thought. He just wished he would stop telling people they were going to Vegas – implying that they were traveling _together._ They were not. Geralt wasn’t going anywhere, really. He was moving from hostile town to hostile town, only staying long enough to take down a monster or two and sometimes get paid.

Inaction made him antsy,  but after a while he fell asleep.  He dreamed of empty concert halls and clear voices singing to him in the distance.

He woke just before dawn and decided to go snoop around. The bar was dark and quiet, now that it was empty, and it looked even shabbier than before. There were mounts of cigarette butts under the tables and sticky patches on the floor.

In the back, his eyes fell on Jaskier’s guitar case, propped up against the piano. That seemed odd somehow, but he wasn’t going to try and guess what was going on in that colorful musician’s head. He ruffled through a notebook, pages all filled with dark scribbles that looked like the ramblings of a lunatic; or like Jaskier’s songs maybe. He frowned and put it back carefully.

*

He was going back to the car when he saw it. The body of a man, laying face down in the toxic mud, unmoving and looking very dead. His heart skipped a beat when he took in the mop of brown hair and the purple shirt, but no, it wasn’t him, it couldn’t be. He broke into a jog, because the rain was starting to smart. He grabbed an arm and pulled, dragging the body all the way under the motel porch.

Then he crouched and turned the dead man around – not Jaskier, definitively not Jaskier. His face looked like minced meat, so badly burned that Geralt couldn’t even tell if he had been murdered or if he had just stupidly blacked out in a puddle after a night of drinking. He went through his pockets and couldn’t find any wallet or keys, nothing that could identify him.

He froze when he heard footsteps coming his way. He was ready to defend himself – bracing to get once more accused of a crime he didn’t commit. But when he raised his head, he met the resigned look of the young barmaid from last night.

“Another one,” she stated. She suddenly looked weary beyond her years.

“Any idea who this is?” Geralt asked.

But the girl just stayed silent and looked at what remained of the dead man’s face without blinking. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting from her. He tried to remember her name to get through to her.

“Gwen?” She whipped her head and focused on him. “Is your dad around?” Geralt asked. She looked at him blankly, as if she didn’t understand the question. “The manager?” Geralt pressed.

“He went on a supply run a few days ago,” she said, her face a blank mask devoid of emotion. “He hasn’t come back yet.”

 _That was bad_ , Geralt thought. That meant he had found the place.

*

Geralt flung the door to their motel room open. He knew he was too loud and it was too early, and he relished the way Jaskier groaned and sat up in the bed, clearly hungover. His short hair stuck in every direction and his lips looked swollen in the half light. There were clothes thrown haphazardly everywhere, last night’s activities clearly transpiring through the mess.

“Hmpf,” Jaskier said. He opened bleary eyes and glared at Geralt.

“I’d ask you if you saw anything, but you clearly had other things in mind,” the witcher said.

“Where did she go?” Jaskier whined, clearly not ashamed. Then he lay back and pulled the sheet over his head.

Geralt shrugged as if he couldn’t care less, but something stirred deep down. Something ugly and possessive.

“A man is dead,” he announced, hoping to ruin the mood even more.

“Monster?” Jaskier asked, peeking out again and looking at him with bright blue eyes, slightly more awake now.

Geralt didn’t know yet. Gwen was adamant it was an accident, but he knew it wasn’t.

“What do you want me to do?” Jaskier seemed to think he was some kind of sidekick, which was a laughable idea.

“Don’t get in my way,” he growled instead. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“No promises,” Jaskier said.

*

He joined Geralt outside a little later, begrudgingly awake and already complaining about the lack of good coffee and the terrible weather. Geralt didn’t care about either. He was at the place where he was supposed to be, with a hunt to distract himself. Just how things should be.

He had taken his guns apart, in the back of the pickup, and he was carefully cleaning and reassembling them. One was an antique revolver, the other a chrome Beretta that was a little flashy for his taste. It wasn’t his, and he just couldn’t part from it.

Jaskier watched him work for a while, talking about many things without really being distracting either. The sound of the rain on the tin roof pretty much drowned his words anyway.

Geralt didn’t share his plans, and Jaskier didn’t ask to help on his quest for the motel murderer. He just sort of hovered close by all day, while Geralt worked. He retraced the dead guy’s steps to a room upstairs, where he found a single suitcase, wallet and keys on the nightstand. Nothing was missing, nothing was broken.

Then he asked a few early drinkers in the bar, who were all either hostile or wary. Nobody saw anything, nobody was willing to talk anyway. In their eyes he could see the same strange indifference as Gwen earlier. He could understand the whole “not my problem” reasoning – he tried, and failed, to live by that motto most of the time – but he didn’t get the lack of self preservation. No amounts of alcohol could explain that much obliviousness.

Jaskier tinkered with his small guitar for a while, then played half a song on the piano – winking at Gwen who just shrugged and turned the other way. She looked pretty annoyed, and Geralt was starting to suspect she was not the one Jaskier spent the night with. Not that he cared about it at all.

Hours went by surprisingly fast despite the whole stillness of the dive during the day. People were mostly confined to their rooms, probably pestering against the rain, or trying to justify their tardiness to their wives, husbands or bosses. Maybe some of them were even glad to be trapped here, he mused.

*

“What about him, over there?” Jaskier asked, and he pointed at a balding man sitting at the bar, not so discreetly.

“Itinerant salesman,” Geralt tried. “His wife left him.” The man did look pretty sad and hammered. Certainly not a monster, probably not a killer.

They were playing a little game, trying to imagine other patrons’ lives. So far, Jaskier was winning; he was able to spin incredible tales of nonsensical adventures for everyone in sight. Geralt was observant, but he simply wasn’t good with words.

“What does he sell?” Jaskier nudged, trying to get him to elaborate.

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He hadn’t thought that far to be honest.

Jaskier let out a small laugh and looked at him with a goofy smile plastered on his face. Geralt wasn’t sure he liked drunk-Jaskier. He was loud, louder than usual, if that was possible, and very… tactile. Geralt didn’t like the way he pressed against his thigh, in the too small booth in a dark corner of the bar. Or rather, he feared that he liked it a little too much.

“And in another life,” Jaskier said, slurring his words a little and raising his glass with an unsteady hand, “you would have been a proud warrior, and I would have been your trusty bard, writing songs about your heroic feats, so that everyone would know about the great Geralt of– ow!”

Geralt stepped on his foot before he could finish his sentence, maybe a little too hard judging by Jaskier’s glare.

“I’m no hero,” Geralt growled, very low.

“Uh, yeah you are. You kill monsters, I saw you.” He made a wide gesture and nearly dropped his glass. Geralt took it from him. _What a lightweight._

“I killed a bunch of starving roadside ghouls, and you didn’t even see me do it because you were sleeping in the car.” _Hurt because of me_ , he added in his head.

“That’s still pretty cool, don’t be such a sour wolf,” Jaskier said, cocking his head. Geralt felt like punching him.

“What about your singer friend?” Geralt asked, because he felt both curious and jealous somehow.

“What about her?” Jaskier replied, a little too fast and too loud.

“I couldn’t find her. Maybe she’s the one…”

“No way!” Jaskier said. And then the musician tried to get up, gripping the side of the table a little unsteadily.

“Where are you going?” Geralt asked before he could stop himself.

“Can’t a man go pee?” Jaskier said, but it felt forced. “Do you want to come and help me with that too?”

Oh. So he had noticed how Geralt had kept a close eye on him since morning.

“There is a killer on the loose, Jaskier,” Geralt warned.

“And you said I wasn’t your responsibility. I’m a grown man.”

That was debatable, Geralt thought, but he didn’t argue. Not his responsibility, he repeated in his head, not his companion. But he was stuck here with him.

Jaskier still hadn’t come back when Gwen came to find him at his table.

“ It’s gone,” she said, her face an unreadable mask.

“What’s gone?” Geralt asked, confused.

She gestured for him to follow. She led him around the tables and all the way to the kitchen, before stopping in front of the walk-in freezer.

“Oh,” he said, when he realized she meant the dead body. “Are you sure?” he asked, wincing because that was a stupid thing to ask.

Gwen put her hands on her hips, clearly more upset than scared. And she ought to be scared right now, because it meant it was someone discreet, someone who had access…

“I’m pretty sure,” she said, whispering as if it was a confidence, “that it came back and devoured it.”

_It._ So she was starting to believe  his whole ‘it’s a monster and not an accident’  theory  after all.

At least now Geralt wouldn’t have to hesitate  when it would come to killing it.  That sort of violence was frowned upon, especially when the creature was humanoid – hence the reward posters with his name on it – but for him it meant he would sleep soundly at night.

*

Jaskier sulked for a while, childishly avoiding Geralt. He knew the witcher probably meant well, but he had made it very clear that he didn’t want him on the road anymore. They were trapped here, but they were certainly not together.

And when Madeleine finally appeared, he started smiling again. The atmosphere changed suddenly when she came into the room. All eyes were on her, conversations stopped and people stilled. She clapped, twice, and people cheered.

And when she seized the microphone and started singing like the night before, Jaskier felt transported somewhere else entirely. Murderous rain, cigarette smells and moody witcher were forgotten altogether, and nothing but her voice remained. How could Geralt even suspect her was beyond him.

Like the evening before, she offered him to share a song, and he scrambled to his feet to join her under the spotlights, basking in her admiration. He couldn’t care less about the crappy audience or the slightly distorted sound coming from the speakers. Time was suspended when she sang, and singing with her was an honor, a dream even.

For some reason the lyrics flowed out of him, without rehearsal, or even talking about it. She led and he followed, something about pirates, something about how sex is better when you’re unemployed. He tried to wink at Geralt on that line, but he only found an empty table where they sat earlier.

And when it was late and Geralt hadn’t come back, when people started going back to their rooms, cursing the rain, Jaskier figured out he could invite Madeleine again. Or rather, the singer invited herself and he happily followed. He wondered if the witcher was pacing outside the room, listening in. Or maybe he was in his car, polishing his damn pistols.

*

In the days that followed, Geralt kept a careful watch, noticing more and more details that bothered no one but him apparently. How the dark-haired singer never appeared before sundown, despite the heavy clouds obscuring the sky. How when she started singing, the atmosphere seemed electric, and it had nothing to do with the storm.

It was like everyone was under a spell, and Geralt was somehow immune to it. He didn’t believe in magic, but he had seen mutated creatures with all sorts of abilities. It could also be drugs in the drinks or it could be the music. She had everyone wrapped up around her little finger, and he just couldn’t kill her without proof. She was cunning, wary of him, but he was onto her.

Jaskier, the fool, was having the time of his life with her. He still flashed easy smiles to Gwen, who brought him drinks – “on the house”, she said – but he no longer sought her company. He only had eyes for Madeleine, and sometimes Geralt would catch him with a vacant expression on his face, as if he wasn’t all there anymore.

And what was even more concerning was the lack of reaction from the other patrons.

Unbothered by the mess, the looming threat of death or the cracks in the roof, they cheered at the songs every evening, and kept on drinking night after night. In Geralt’s opinion, those songs were dark and full of weird metaphors, but everyone applauded no matter how blackout drunk they were and how discordant it all sounded, while thunder shook the whole building.

Most evenings, Geralt wouldn’t listen to the songs, not really. They made him feel weird and he couldn’t deny the pull they had on him, like a hand gripping and twisting deep in his chest. He knew that Madeleine was the literal man-eater that plagued this part of the desert, but she had such an influence over all those poor souls’ minds that Geralt was in a stalemate.

He never saw her alone, it was like she disappeared during the day, and he couldn’t kill her in front of her adoring audience. The mere thought of it made him angry and nauseous, as it brought him back to a certain highway where he had acquired his abhorred nickname. As much as he would like to butcher her where she stood, he couldn’t bring himself to live up to that name anymore.

Sometimes he even woke up at night, with the memory of her dead body in his arms and Jaskier’s horrified eyes looking at him like he was the most abject creature he had ever seen. In some nightmares he even ended up killing Jaskier when the fool threw himself in front of the bullet coming for Madeleine.

*

It was Jaskier, against every odd, who got bored first. The rain hadn’t abated in a week, and even if he seemed to enjoy nights of sex, music and alcohol, it was probably getting a bit repetitive.

Geralt on the other hand, felt like a hound high on the scent of blood. He was focused on the murders – two so far – and he tried not to care too much about Jaskier’s activities. In the evening, he would pace the room and brood and try to devise a plan while thinking there might not be one. He couldn’t lure her out, she knew he was onto her, he had nothing she could possibly want.

But when Jaskier started talking about getting back on the road as soon as the rain stopped, things took a weird turn. The songs became sadder and more intense at the same time. It was as if Jaskier was pulling and twisting, trying to break free from Madeleine’s influence.

It was a bit painful to watch, if Geralt was totally honest, because he felt bad for leading the musician into danger. He was not responsible for the weather, of course, but he should have found a way out by now. Maybe the spell was still affecting him on some level.

*

And that night he really listened to Jaskier, and he could hear the hurt in his voice. He focused on the words he was singing – screaming really – and it sounded like a cry for help, but also like he was starting to give up. It made his blood boil.

“Goodbye to all my darkness, there’s nothing here but light. Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night.”

That was about him, Geralt thought confusedly. _He_ was the faceless thing, the darkness, wasn’t he? But this place was far from light, it was all a lie, make believe held together by Madeleine’s performance night after night. The rain was just an added bonus for the dark-haired siren, allowing her to hunt on dry land, keeping her lured prey trapped. 

“I’m the hardest goodbye that you’ll ever have to say…”

Jaskier sounded like he was sighing now, lost in thought, barely struggling anymore. It was wrong, seeing him like that, leaning into Madeleine’s touch when she came closer, grabbing his shoulder possessively. But when he saw Geralt looking at him through the smoke, he smiled the smallest of smiles, one that didn’t reach his eyes, but seemed like hope.

*

Geralt waited until everyone was gone, even Madeleine, while Jaskier had lingered behind, sitting in front of the piano but not playing anything. Lights were off in the bar, only a spot in the corner remained, and it was like the darkness was ready to engulf him totally. 

“Jaskier?” the witcher tried. “The rain has stopped.” 

Blue eyes looked at him but nothing of the musician remained. He looked like Gwen after finding yet another dead body, or like the balding man who might have got dumped the other day, and just shrugged at the news.

“Just leave me here,” Jaskier said in a toneless voice. “You made it very clear you didn’t care about me.”

“You’re not serious,” Geralt said. And when he stepped closer to shake him out of his torpor, Jaskier just pulled back and stood up.

“Why do you care so much?” he asked, but there was no anger behind his words. He sounded dispassionate and so unlike himself.

Geralt stilled, taken aback by the question. Why, indeed; many answers ran through his mind, none satisfying enough. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because I’m done letting people get hurt when I could save them. Because you’re loud and annoying but your life matters and your voice is nice, on occasion.

He choked and said nothing. Somewhere in the shadows, Madeleine laughed, a throaty sound devoid of glee, that made him shudder.

“He’s mine now, can’t you see?” she said, not coming closer. “Go on your way, witcher, if you don’t want to get hurt.”

And now that was Geralt’s turn to scoff, because the prospect of pain had never been a deterrent for him. If anything, he welcomed pain as a distraction against the blandness of existence. He readied his stance, prepared to fight her if he had to, but she blindsided him, using Jaskier instead.

She started singing, something ominous about throwing the blade at the wolf – he was the wolf, he gathered as much. Jaskier jumped on him, wrapping his arms around him in a bruising hug. Geralt could have thrown him across the room easily – Jaskier wasn’t short, but he was lean, not a fighter – but he hesitated just long enough for the musician to take his gun out of his holster.

“Fuck,” he swore, and Madeleine cackled, her voice grating when she wasn’t singing.

*

Jaskier came back to his senses through a haze, the gun heavy in his hand. Geralt stood in front of him, his hands open, trying to appear non threatening but still terribly massive, towering.

Why does he have Geralt’s gun? He thought confusedly. He gripped it but his hands were slick with sweat. His eyes were stinging and he wondered if he had been crying. He saw movement on his left, a monster, ready to pounce.

Geralt took his hand, the one holding the gun, and wrenched his arm forward. But he wasn’t trying to loosen his grip, Jaskier realized belatedly. Geralt wrapped his hand around his own and fired, at the threat, at Madeleine.

She scrambled backwards, broken, bleeding, and Jaskier wanted to throw the gun away, but Geralt wouldn’t let go. She looked down at her abdomen, where red blood was blooming like a macabre flower on her white gown, and her hands clawed at the fabric. She started wailing then, a blood curdling scream that tore right through him.

He tried to wrench free once more, but Geralt pulled him close and put his hands over his ears, pressing hard. The sound was still so loud, it was like it was drilling a hole through his skull and into his brain.

“Wha–?” Jaskier said, but he couldn’t hear his own voice, he wasn’t even sure he had uttered a sound.

He tried to raise his head and see what was going on, but Geralt pressed even harder and curled up around him, effectively shielding him from the onslaught of noise. He dropped the gun and put his own hands over Geralt’s.

And then.

It stopped.

Jaskier briefly wondered if the other people around, in the motel, had heard it as well, that dying scream, or if they were still sleeping soundly, unaware. But his brain skipped a beat when Geralt released him and took a step back, shaking his head slightly. The room was ravaged, as if the storm had rushed inside for an instant.

Madeleine had fled, leaving red drops of blood all the way to the front door. It was wide open, surely clanking with the wind, but Jaskier couldn’t hear anything except a ringing that wouldn’t go away.

Geralt still hadn’t moved and he seemed stunned, cupping a hand over his own ear, eyes darting up as if he was testing his own hearing. Jaskier tried talking again, so many questions spilling at the same time, and he knew he was probably talking way too loud, but Geralt didn’t seem to care.

“She’s gone,” Geralt said, and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief because he actually heard that.

When he saw the small trail of blood, running from the witcher’s ears, he felt bad – guilty for not being strong enough, for needing saving once more. He put a hand on Geralt’s arm, trying to catch his attention.

“Shit, Geralt, your ears! I’m sorry.”

“Can’t hear you,” Geralt said, shaking his head.

Jaskier sagged a little, his legs weak all of a sudden. Sleepless nights and alcohol and mind control, it all came crashing down and if it wasn’t for Geralt’s bruising grip on his good arm he would have fallen to the ground.

“Car, now,” Geralt said, very loud in the silence of the room.

“Are you going to track her down?” Jaskier asked, not even trying to hide the sadness in his voice. He wasn’t even sure what he would have preferred, to know that she couldn’t hurt anyone else, or to know that she escaped and that her voice still resounded somewhere. He could still feel the dark tendrils of her power trying to choke his mind.

Geralt shook his head, slowly, but Jaskier wasn’t even sure he heard him. They made it to the car, with Jaskier asking questions – about the rain, about the other people here, about the bodies – and Geralt not answering them.

The car felt safe, even though he knew he wasn’t welcomed in it.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said. He looked at his hands in his lap and let his hair hide his eyes.

“You helped,” Geralt said, a little late, a little too loud. “Distraction.”

“You protected me,” Jaskier insisted. “You sacrificed your own health for me.”

“It will heal,” he said, a little softer now. He sounded so sure that Jaskier briefly wondered what sort of horrible monsters he fought on a daily basis to dismiss such an injury.

“And now I get to drive in silence,” Geralt added with the hint of a smile.

Jaskier clicked his tongue. So that was it? The fool was okay with self-sacrifice if that allowed him to enjoy a little peace? Those songs must have been terrible if the witcher accepted that outcome with barely a shrug. How long did they stay there anyway?

The sun was rising behind them, painting the sky with pretty pinks and yellows. The air felt clear, out of the dark confines of the bar. The smell of acid rain lingered still, but like the rest, it was already starting to fade like a bad memory.

“Hm, Geralt? Stop the car, I left my guitar case!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know where this is going, I swear.  
> All the songs (except _Toss a Coin_ ) are from [The Amazing Devil's music](https://theamazingdevil.bandcamp.com/). Check them out please.


	3. Chapter 3

They drove in silence for a long time. Jaskier clutched his guitar case, thankfully retrieved from the mess they were leaving behind, and Geralt gripped the wheel because he felt too full of emotions and was afraid they would spill. His jaw clenched, there was a tension in his neck and shoulders that told him they would need to stop soon.

His ears had stopped bleeding a while ago, and every sound was muffled and distant, but he was confident he didn’t damage them too badly. He was pretty resilient, had to be with the life he led.

The silence became unnerving after a while. He missed Jaskier’s songs, his chatter, or even the bad country music from the broken radio. He had meant to repair that, maybe even buy a new one, but like so many other things he never got around to actually doing it.

It felt like a spell had fallen over the car, over the never silent musician. Geralt winced at the turn of phrase, because another spell wasn’t what he wanted to think about right now. An awkward tension, then. Geralt did threaten to leave him behind more than once, and he still didn’t really know why he hadn’t.

He couldn’t understand Jaskier’s trust in him – a murderous stranger who kept drugs and weapons in the back of his truck. People usually cowered in fear once they got to see him in action. They didn’t try to write pop songs about it. It was like Stockholm syndrome, except he felt like he was the one taken hostage.

*

Jaskier quickly came to realize that riding with a deaf witcher was a very dull affair. The radio wouldn’t turn on – he tried multiple times until Geralt just swatted his hand away with a huff – and playing music without an audience wasn’t fun. To be honest, Geralt hadn’t been that chatty before, but now even monosyllabic grunting was scarce.

After much worrying on Jaskier’s part, Geralt had assured him that it wasn’t permanent, and that it would only need time – and silence – to heal. Jaskier couldn’t help but feel guilty about it. After that, Geralt had stopped talking altogether, much to the chagrin of his companion. He had so many questions left unanswered.

“I mean, don’t pester me about the inaccuracies in my songs when I can’t even be sure what we were up against,” he complained.

He wasn’t expecting a reply, and smiled when Geralt let out a soft, “We?” while looking at him in the rear view mirror. Either his ears were already on the mend, or he was reading his lips.

“Don’t make that face,” Jaskier said, “we were in it _together_. _I_ killed her,” he argued, and Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Oh god, I killed her,” he whispered, suddenly hit by the realization.

Geralt made a grunting sound that surely meant what little he thought about dead man-eaters. But Jaskier chose to ignore him.

“Well, maybe she didn’t die,” he mused with a weary smile. “She was too pretty for such a demise.”

He sighed dramatically, faking a love sickness that was all too real a few days ago, and Geralt rolled his eyes in silence.

Over the next few days, they stopped occasionally, for gas and food, wandering their separate ways for a short while when it was safe, before regrouping at the car. Geralt never tried to leave him behind again, and Jaskier wisely chose not to question it.

Not having to hitchhike for once felt nice. Being able to relax, without wondering if he would be woken up by groping hands or roughly thrown out by the side of the road without his pack. But he still kept everything in his guitar case and slept curled up around it.

*

Jaskier started being annoying as soon as he gathered that Geralt could hear him again if he talked loud enough – even though Geralt still pretended not to from time to time. From then on, it was a non stop flow of questions and remarks, about the road, monsters and Geralt’s job. He didn’t consider it a job – maybe an occupation. But Jaskier liked to paint a heroic portrait of him, and, well, Geralt would have lied if some part of him didn’t like it.

“Are we still in Arizona?” Jaskier asked, squinting in the sunlight and watching the road ahead. “Is it true that there is no highway left, further north?”

Geralt nodded and grunted. If Jaskier had heard about it, then he didn’t need any more explanations about how flash floods and landslides had completely destroyed the road. They would have to get off the highway as soon as they reached the end of the desert.

From there, it was only back roads and sinewy detours. Jaskier commented on everything he saw, weird trees that looked diseased, burnt car wrecks along the road, overgrown vegetation everywhere.

“It feels like taking the scenic route.” He looked like a kid on holiday. “Although I would have hoped for more civilized lands,” he added, probably because most of the towns they passed were abandoned.

“Attacks,” Geralt explained, without specifying from whom or what.

The town they were in hadn’t fared better than the others, but it had a deserted convenience store, and Geralt thought that one last supply run before heading to the woods couldn’t hurt.

“Looting, Geralt? Really?” Jaskier asked in the empty parking lot, his tone falsely shocked.

The witcher answered with a grunt and a shrug. He gathered a crowbar and a backpack from the back of the truck.

“That place has clearly seen better days,” Jaskier continued, looking at the building.

It was an understatement, as always. Damn that musician and his perpetual positive outlook on life – was he never scared of anything? The place looked ravaged, paint and concrete chipped, glass windows broken.

“Stay with the car,” he told Jaskier.

He could hear his own voice just fine now, but Jaskier’s answer came garbled and muted. He suspected that he was mumbling on purpose just to annoy him.

“Stay here,” he repeated, not hearing his protests if there were any.

He headed inside the building that probably used to be air-conditioned and brightly lit, but was now dark and stuffy. The amount of undisturbed dust on the floor told him that there was no immediate threat, but he still moved carefully, letting his eyes adapt to the absence of light.

It had been ransacked long before, shelves thrown to the ground and the ones still standing near empty. He grabbed a forgotten bag of chips, thought about Jaskier munching while complaining that they were stale, and promptly put it back.

He ventured further in, kicking doors until he found himself in the back office. He rummaged through drawers and cabinets, pilling his findings on the desk. Loose change, some pens, half empty bottles of pills.

Then he spotted the very ugly painting, hanging on an otherwise pretty bare wall, and he smiled to himself. A safe meant money, but most of the time ammo, and you could never have too many bullets.

He tore the painting off the wall and pried his crowbar between the wall and the door hinges of the flimsy looking safe, before pulling, using his own weight for leverage. He may have been a little too engrossed in his task – he could see it starting to budge, just a little more pressure and…

Suddenly there was a lot of pressure of another kind, on his throat. Someone had jumped him, he realized as he tried to buck; the omnipresent ringing in his ears must have drowned their footsteps completely. And now he was being strangled with what appeared to be a sawed-off shotgun, by a man even taller than himself.

Geralt mentally kicked himself for letting his guard down, while the other man kicked his legs and he fell forward, hitting the wall rather painfully. They both grappled for Geralt’s gun in his shoulder holster, and it fell on the floor. The witcher managed to free himself from the choke hold, he even got a few good hits, but the element of surprise wasn’t on his side and his opponent was built like an ox.

An uppercut to the abdomen made Geralt cough and double over. He tried to grab his discarded gun but the other one gripped his hair, twisting his head backwards and pointing his shotgun at his face. He said something Geralt didn’t catch, but then he stilled and looked at the door.

Geralt followed his gaze and swore between clenched teeth when he saw Jaskier standing there, Geralt’s spare gun pointed at them. He was gripping it with both hands and he looked determined enough. The musician said something, probably to the guy holding him, and Geralt decided that he had had enough. He used his elbow to strike upwards, aiming for the throat. He felt more than he heard the crushed larynx, and the man sputtered and choked, dropping his weapon. Geralt rose to his feet and retrieved his own gun, putting it back in his holster.

“How many?” he asked Jaskier, who shook his head and babbled excitedly, way too fast for him to follow.

Jaskier waved the borrowed gun around, and Geralt snatched it back, suddenly angry – at himself for such a rookie mistake, at Jaskier for not doing what he was told.

“How many left, Jaskier?” he repeated, just to be sure they were safe.

There was a beating in his head matching the one in his ears, and his throat felt raw and too tight.

Jaskier shrugged and turned to face him, mouthing deliberately slow, “I locked his friend in the restroom. You’re welcome, by the way,” he added.

Just like that, as if that was the expected behavior from a gaudy musician armed only with a half empty guitar case – and a borrowed gun.

“All that trouble for some pills, really?” Jaskier commented with his hands on his hips, looking at Geralt’s meager findings on the desk.

The witcher indicated the safe behind him, the crowbar still jammed between the wall and the hinges.

“Money?” Jaskier mouthed with a perplexed frown.

Geralt wordlessly kicked the downed bandit one more time for good measure and finished cracking the safe open. He winced when it pulled on his ribs.

“Bullets,” he growled, getting several cartridge boxes out. “So you can continue pulling stunts like that,” he said, eyeing the chrome gun on the table.

“It’s a little bit girly, isn’t it?” Jaskier wondered aloud. “A friend’s maybe?”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Alright, touchy subject.” He held up his hands defensively. “Forgive me for asking.”

“You ask too many questions. Some things are best left in the past.”

He didn’t feel like talking anymore, but still Jaskier wouldn’t let it go. Even without hearing the questions he could see the musician rattle on, and no amounts of annoyed grunts seem to shut him up. So he grabbed him by the back of his shirt and shoved him towards the door.

“Hey, mind the clothes!” he cried, twisting away.

“They’re not yours,” Geralt commented.

“Well I don’t have anything else,” he replied. “Unless we have time for some shopping.”

Geralt wordlessly pushed him forward, and then all the way to the car. Sure, he was irritated about the gun, but he mostly resented Jaskier’s recklessness and himself for showing weakness.

They drove in silence once more; Jaskier sulking and Geralt fuming. He didn’t need help, and certainly not from a homeless troubadour. But in the meantime he tried not to revel in the notion that his travel companion might not be as useless as he first thought.

*

Geralt, as it turned out, was an ungrateful prick.

He didn’t even thank Jaskier for the daring rescue. Instead, he got frogmarched back to the car and given the silent treatment – even more silent than before.

But it was sort of his fault if the witcher didn’t hear those two guys approach. What was he supposed to do? Hide in the car and let them rob or kill Geralt? That wasn’t what friends did.

To be fair, Geralt seemed more upset about him handling his gun than getting out of the car and into harm’s way. It was only logical, Jaskier thought, he was protective of his stuff, and Jaskier wasn’t included on the list.

He sighed once or twice, but Geralt paid him no mind, either not hearing or not caring. It was going to be a long ride.

Night was falling when they stopped again. Geralt parked the car in the parking lot of what used to be a picnic area, when the place was still a state park and not a no man’s land. There was a nice clearing nearby and further, the woods, dark and mysterious.

“Are there monsters in the forest?” Jaskier asked, eyeing the treeline warily.

“Probably,” came the laconic and unhelpful answer.

“Then why are we stopping?” he protested.

But he still got out of the car when the witcher did, and followed him around as he gathered kindling. He didn’t comment when he saw him wince and hold his flank every time he bent forward.

“Are we camping, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, with a hint of disbelief in his voice.

He hadn’t pegged the witcher as the campfire type, but his gestures were swift and assured – like everything else he did – and he soon built a nice fire a few paces away from the truck. It was mild out there, a stark contrast with the extreme temperatures of the desert.

The crackling of the fire drowned some of the apprehension Jaskier had about monsters prowling in the woods, and he settled down against a hollowed tree trunk.

Geralt, all violent and grumpy as he pretended to be, had been sharing his meals with him most of the time, and Jaskier was grateful for it. He did have some food squirreled away just in case, but he accepted whatever the witcher cooked or shoved his way with a grunt. He tried to repay him with songs more than once, but it wasn’t well received to say the least.

Jaskier briefly wondered if Geralt could hunt or fish. Maybe next time, they could roast a trout or a lamb or whatever a mighty witcher could catch in those woods. For now, he watched Geralt heat up a can of peas and something that looked like lard in a tin can above the fire. It made his mouth water anyway.

It felt a little strange to camp out after staying cooped up in the car for so long. The desert was not a place where you wanted to be out at night: it was cold and dreary. But there, with the fire going, it was much better.

Jaskier wasn’t afraid of the dark, not exactly. But at night he felt small, and he didn’t like it. They ate in silence, while Jaskier listened to the forest. He couldn’t hear anything monstrous, but he wasn’t sure he would recognize a monster pacing.

Geralt seemed to sense that he was getting skittish – or maybe he was just tired himself – because he got bedrolls from the trunk and lay them on a tarp. He tied another one to nearby trees, shielding them from the light wind coming from the east. Jaskier did his best to help, mostly by staying out his way.

Lying there next to the fire, he watched the night sky and the pinpricks of the stars. He wondered if Geralt would agree to be his bodyguard in Vegas. He was pretty sure he had enemies waiting for him there.

The music business was a cutthroat affair.

*

Jaskier woke up to an empty camp and a smoldering fire. He had a brief feeling of… not panic, really, but rather weary disappointment, until he spotted the car, still parked where it was last night. Geralt wouldn’t leave him out there in the wilderness, would he?

He was still wondering about the best course of action when he heard a twig crack behind him. He grabbed a branch and turned around swiftly, ready to strike.

“You look ridiculous,” Geralt greeted him with half a smile.

“You…” Jaskier stalled, still too sleepy to find a nice comeback.

Geralt busied himself with the fire and water for the coffee – something Jaskier probably could or should have been doing. Then he got something out of his pockets and tossed it to Jaskier. He nearly got hit in the face but managed to catch it after some fumbling.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Jaskier mumbled.

He wondered if the thing he was holding was edible. It looked like a crabapple.

“It was very early, you wouldn’t have appreciated,” Geralt said, despite having his back turned.

“Is your hearing back?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt didn’t answer immediately, and Jaskier took a bite of the apple thing. It was sweet and tangy, not apple-like at all.

“I hope you’re not trying to poison me with that,” he said, munching on it anyway.

“Ate one on the way.” Geralt shrugged, sitting on his heels.

“Oh, so you do hear when I talk,” Jaskier mocked. He accepted the mug of instant coffee he was offered with grateful hands.

“I just choose to ignore it,” Geralt confirmed.

Once Jaskier knew for sure Geralt could hear him again, he started pestering him with questions about witchers. He avoided guns, he wasn’t suicidal, but was curious about everything else.

“I thought witchers were all bikers,” he told Geralt. “Why the truck?”

“Hmm.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s more convenient,” Geralt conceded.

“You should get a caravan, have real beds,” Jaskier suggested. He dramatically rolled his stiff neck.

“If you’re not happy with the ride, I can leave you here instead.”

“Empty threats again, why Geralt, I thought we were past that,” Jaskier mocked.

He got his ukulele out of its case and tried some notes. “You on a bike would have been so much sexier though,” he said with a wink.

*

“Care to explain what’s the point of that little camping stop?” Jaskier asked a little later, when Geralt hadn’t given any indication that they were moving soon. “Not that I don’t like this impromptu break.

He was lying down on the grass, with his notebook open in front of him, and a borrowed pen in his mouth.

“I’m gathering supplies for the road,” Geralt explained from his car.

Now that Jaskier thought about it, the witcher had made several trips to the woods and back. He heard shots too, but never saw him bring back any game.

“What supplies? I’ve seen your secret trunk, it’s full of stuff. What more do you need?”

Jaskier’s interest was piqued now and he stood up to investigate. Geralt took a blue cooler – the sort you’d use for a picnic – out of his secret compartment of witchery supplies. However, the stench that came out when he opened it was so bad it made Jaskier’s eyes water.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, a little horrified and yet so curious.

“Fiends’ eyes.”

Jaskier got closer and snatched a glimpse of the inside of the box. He nearly gagged, because there were actual eyes marinating in it.

“Geralt, why do you keep rotting eyes in a cooler?”

“For trade.”

“Who in their right mind would want severed eyes?” Jaskier wondered out loud, because it was truly disgusting.

“A man up north who controls the road access,” Geralt said.

He closed the cooler and replaced it in the trunk, leaving Jaskier with even more questions.

*

“What does a fiend look like?” Jaskier asked a little bit later, pen in hand, looking up from his scribbled notepad.

“Rotten,” Geralt said after some reflection.

“That’s it? You need to give me more than that!” the musician exclaimed.

“I wouldn’t know,” Geralt added. “It is best to hunt it blindfolded.”

“Let me get this straight, you’ve been hunting half deaf and blind for two days? Are you making this up?”

“Their third eye is dangerous,” Geralt said with a serious expression. “Hypnotic.”

“I so have to see that,” Jaskier said; exactly as Geralt was saying, “Don’t follow me.”

“How many more eyes do you need anyway?” Jaskier asked, crossing his arms and frowning when his damn cast got in the way.

He got no answer this time. Geralt seemed to have had enough with questions about his witcher ways. It was logical, Jaskier thought, since he usually worked alone. He had somehow grown accustomed to danger and transporting body parts in a cooler.

Geralt got ready for another hunt, but this time Jaskier followed him. He made sure he stayed at a safe distance from the witcher and the monster he was looking for. He could be very stealthy when he put his mind to it, careful not to step on dry leaves and twigs. After a while, he was pretty sure that Geralt hadn’t realized he was behind him; that or he was good at pretending.

The woods became more and more dark and humid, and Jaskier was starting to regret his decision, because his feet were cold and wet, as the mud was slowly seeping in. He should have gone back to the camp, but he wasn’t sure he’d find the way on his own.

Geralt stopped moving. He raised his head and sniffed the air, looking for something only him could smell. Jaskier held his breath and stopped moving as well, hiding behind a large tree. He heard the beast approach as he watched the witcher tie a black bandana over his eyes.

So he was serious about that.

The trees parted, and the fiend appeared. It looked like an oversized deer made of nightmares and putrefaction held together by rot. Geralt was right with his single word description. The ground shook as it came nearer, and it lolled its gigantic head adorned with monstrous antlers. Jaskier closed his eyes when it looked his way, but it quickly moved away.

Geralt took his gun out, the chrome one, the one he didn’t want to discuss. Jaskier wasn’t really sure about what was happening – was the beast not attacking because it was trying to hypnotize Geralt, or because it didn’t even see him as a threat? Maybe it was like dinosaurs, and it couldn’t see movement if its prey wasn’t moving.

And then, even though he was blind, Geralt pointed the gun at the fiend, a little below its head, and shot a single bullet, straight through its heart – at least Jaskier supposed that’s what happened, because it gurgled once and fell, spraying dark blood on the ground. After that, Geralt got a knife out. He knelt down and started carving away like a new sort of butcher. That seemed like a lot of work just for an eye.

The leaves rustled again, somewhere on their left, and Jaskier gripped his tree, hoping it wasn’t the fiend’s companion coming to avenge its death. Although that was an interesting concept – could monsters have friends and be sad when witchers killed them?

Geralt seemed to hear it too, and he stilled briefly. When nothing happened, he put the eye in a bag and stood up. He was facing the wrong way, and he didn’t see the giant spider that came at him. Jaskier screamed a strangled warning, but it was already too late.

The thing was huge, with too many eyes and legs. It spit webbing Geralt’s way, hitting the witcher on his back and neck. He twisted around and got hit in the face this time, leaving him dazed and tangled in sticky strings. That wouldn’t make a very heroic song, Jaskier thought.

The spider raised its nightmarish front legs, ready to strike. It had fangs and Jaskier was pretty sure it was venom he could see dripping from them. He’d have to ask Geralt about it, Geralt would know. Geralt, who was stumbling around, trying to free himself, not fighting. Was the webbing toxic somehow?

He dropped the knife, then fell to his knees. He looked close to passing out, struggling to breathe, and Jaskier knew he had to do something.

He moved around the trees, careful not to make too much noise. He fumbled with his guitar case, now glad that he hadn’t left it at the camp. When he came close enough, he brought it down on the spider, hard, like a bludgeon.

He might have screamed a little as well, when the monster spit webbing at him. It missed, thankfully, and only some strands landed on his shoulder. It felt heavy, like an iron net, and so he hurriedly hit it again and again.

And then the monster imploded, sending black goo everywhere. It twitched a little, but it looked pretty dead. Jaskier wasn’t expecting it to go down so easily, and he stood there, covered in spider entrails, with a broken ukulele and a passed out witcher.

Jaskier’s skin was itchy and tight, and he was pretty sure he would have to burn his shirt after that, but he still took the time to free Geralt from the webbing. He had to use the knife, because it seemed to harden the more he pulled at it. And then, finally, the witcher took a deep breath and Jaskier sagged in relief at the sound.

*

Geralt woke up with a splitting headache and very confused memories, filled with screams and spiders. Shit, the arachnomorph – he tried to sit up and winced because everything hurt as if he had been beaten unconscious. He remembered being tangled in webbing, and Jaskier yelling. He tensed and looked around, sighing in relief when he saw the musician nearby, hunched by the fire in a shirt too big for him.

“Jaskier?” he croaked.

“You’re awake!” Jaskier chirped, raising his head and smiling a tired smile.

He looked exhausted and small. His hair was wet, and Geralt realized he was wearing one of his spare shirts. Black wasn’t his color, it looked dull on him.

“Why did you follow me?” Geralt asked, and it clearly wasn’t the thing to say because Jaskier started talking way too fast and too loudly for his current headache.

“… got drenched in blood to save you… Not even a thank you… Well, you’re welcome anyway.”

“Is that why are you wearing my shirt?” Geralt asked when he calmed down. What he really wanted to ask was, “Are you injured?”, but the words didn’t come out right.

“I’m heartbroken,” Jaskier said, cryptic.

He did look pretty sad, so Geralt tried to scoot closer, struggling to extricate himself from the bedrolls he was bundled in.

“I’ve decided to wear black to mourn my beloved instrument,” Jaskier sighed, looking at the fire and not at the broken pieces of wood lying on the ground nearby.

The ukulele was shattered, the soft wood obviously beyond repair. Geralt frowned but he didn’t press. He knew he should express his gratitude for that sacrifice, but he didn’t know how. So he sat next to Jaskier and watched the fire with him in silence instead.

*

“Do you think she was human, before?” Jaskier asked out of the blue. The flames of the fire danced in his eyes.

“Who?” Geralt asked, confused.

“Madeleine – the… siren.”

Geralt just shrugged because he didn’t have the answer to that question and he wasn’t sure he cared. She was most probably dead.

“I shouldn’t have shot her. Maybe she was only cursed,” Jaskier mused, throwing twigs at the fire.

“That’s the stuff of fairy tales,” Geralt scoffed. “She was a monster.”

“You really should question the reality of our world a little more,” Jaskier said with a hard look. “The things you’ve seen… surely there are things you can’t explain with such a lazy explanation as ‘genetic mutations and chemical spills’.”

Geralt made a noncommittal grunt, but Jaskier wouldn’t let it go. It was true that the musician had killed or threatened to kill several living creatures in a short time span, so he was bound to feel some remorse at some point. Geralt was used to dealing with death, but it hadn’t always been the case.

He just hoped it wasn’t the remnants of whatever influence the roadside siren had on him. A pang of guilt accompanied this thought, and Geralt busied himself with the fire instead. Sometimes, you just couldn’t save everyone. But he knew it wasn’t what Jaskier needed to hear.

“Fine, suit yourself, you grumpy skeptic.”

That certainly was a first among an ever growing list of insults people had thrown at him. But Jaskier didn’t look mad. He was lying against a fallen tree trunk, laid-back and relaxed. Trusting. And Geralt couldn’t understand why.

But he didn’t stay silent for long, and soon he was plaguing him with questions again.

“Why are you going to Las Vegas anyway?”

“I never said I was,” Geralt said in a flat voice, secretly rejoicing when Jaskier’s face fell. Served him right for assuming anything about him.

“I thought… You said…” Jaskier squeaked.

“I never said anything about my destination, you just assumed because it was convenient for you,” Geralt said.

“Then why are you still letting me tag along?”

And to be fair, Geralt was asking himself the same question everyday.

“Did I put a spell on you with my music?” Jaskier asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“No, your music is–”

“Don’t finish that thought if it’s an insult,” Jaskier warned, and so Geralt stayed silent, because he felt petty like that.

*

There weren’t many road signs still up around those parts, but Geralt knew the way. He had taken it a long time ago, when he needed a change of scenery. He thought being back here would be hard, but having someone with him this time changed things a lot, even if he tried not to acknowledge it.

Triss had once called him a self-righteous misanthrope, and while he didn’t totally agree with that, he could see where it was coming from. It was easy to blame fate for your own choices and errors, and refuse any help from others. But introspection had never been his forte anyway.

Jaskier stopped mourning his ukulele rather quickly, and he started singing instead, trying by him all the new songs that he planned on singing at that talent show of his. If it really existed, and wasn’t just an elaborate lie to get closer to his former band mate. He talked about Valdo with such a rage that one would have thought they used to be more than that.

Some part of him was secretly curious and determined to see it through, no matter how much he shrugged and denied it. A riled up Jaskier was an interesting sight and he made a mental note never to anger him too much.

Jaskier was feisty and excitable and he sang of monsters he had hardly ever seen. Clearly, being drenched in blood and viscera didn’t make him rethink his whole romantic approach to monster killing.

He did end up singing his epic take painting Geralt as the white wolf, a mighty witcher, protector of the innocent, and Geralt said he didn’t like it, but he couldn’t hide the way his eyes crinkled when he tried not to smile. Now he understood what the musician meant when he talked about having fans. It was certainly a step up from the last time a crowd was shouting his name.

“What’s the plan now?” Jaskier asked, looking at the road ahead. “We keep driving?”

“I keep driving,” Geralt corrected, “and you keep being annoying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter, even though nothing much happens.  
> They are going to reach Vegas at some point, I swear. Yennefer is there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier makes new friends, and Geralt has a bad day.

The closer they got to the border of Arizona, the tenser Geralt became, to the point that he kept snapping at Jaskier without meaning to. The younger man wasn’t even that fussy, though he did complain a lot about his broken instrument, but Geralt could understand the feeling.

His worry and hostility came from the fact that the border was a bad place, and it brought back memories he didn’t need cluttering his brain. Jaskier was bound to either leave him – once he’d realize how deeply monstrous his companion was – or to get hurt while stubbornly follow him.

But Geralt had failed not to get attached, and now he wanted to get to Vegas maybe as badly as the musician. And also to see him win his competition, if it could make him happy.

They had set up camp in a meadow – “no, Jaskier, those are not mutant ticks, just small insects that won’t harm you.” There, in an attempt to channel that negative energy, Geralt asked out of the blue, “Do you want me to teach you how to fight?” 

“Are you going to hunt me for sport?” Jaskier asked with a worried expression. 

“What, no! Just some basic self-defense tricks,” Geralt quickly explained.

“No hunting, you’re sure?” 

“Yes, Jaskier, I won’t hunt you for sport,” Geralt swore, already slightly exasperated.

Jaskier seemed genuinely relieved – just what happened to him during previous travels? The witcher wasn’t really sure he believed all the tales of adventure Jaskier was constantly spinning, but there must be some truth to it after all.

Geralt took off his leather jacket and his shoulder holsters, folding everything neatly, close enough to be able to reach for the guns just in case. But he was confident there was no one for miles around. Jaskier looked unsure now, and somehow younger than when he was telling rowdy stories in the car.

“Attack me,” Geralt said, and he readied his stance, putting his right foot slightly forward.

“Uh, no,” Jaskier protested, raising his hands. “You are going to flip me and I’m not going to like it.” 

Geralt could have explained – how he wanted to check his companion’s balance, his stance and other things that either came naturally or had to be taught. It would have required words and he felt like it was too big a task. 

“Humor me?” he said instead.

Jaskier got to his feet and moved closer, small steps as if he was approaching a wild beast. Geralt knew he was light-footed when he wanted to be, and he liked that; he was fast and agile, and they could work with that. 

He had a tell though, like most inexperienced fighters – not a fighter, Geralt reminded himself – and he bent slightly to the left before attacking. Predictable, and so easily thwarted. Geralt didn’t throw him to the ground, even though he could have without even breaking a sweat. He parried and blocked the blow, then twisted away and took a step back.

“Again,” he said.

And Jaskier once again shifted to the left and attacked, faster this time, but not enough to fool him. 

“Can I ask what’s the point?” Jaskier said, cocking his head at the witcher. 

“Trying to get an idea of your strengths and weaknesses,” Geralt explained. 

They moved slowly in the meadow; Jaskier was trying to flank him, which would never work but was a fair strategy in any case. This time Jaskier didn’t shift, and instead of throwing a punch, he jumped on Geralt, using his whole body to try and… what? Tackle him to the ground? It was a ridiculous attempt.

Geralt seized him by the arm and used his momentum to throw him over his shoulder in a fireman carry. Jaskier squirmed and flailed, sputtering something that sounded like a breathless, “Let me go.” He kicked uselessly, and Geralt trapped his legs, gripping his thigh harder, just below his ass. He felt Jaskier still and tense, and he was about to put him down when Jaskier tried to punch him with his cast arm; he was hanging upside down and the blow lacked any real energy but it still hurt.

When that didn’t work, Jaskier punched again, harder, hitting him in the groin this time. Geralt howled and they both fell to the ground in a mess of limbs. Jaskier scrambled away, elbowing Geralt in the face and not even apologizing. 

“What is wrong with you?” Geralt growled, but then looked up when he got no answer.

Jaskier was shaking slightly and muttering something under his breath, trying to put some more distance between them. He seemed distraught, and Geralt felt his anger recede as the pain lessened. He held up his hands and tried to appear non-threatening.

“Truce?” he said. 

Jaskier let out a weak laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “Felt trapped.” 

“That’s a good reflex,” Geralt shrugged. 

“I hurt you,” Jaskier said, looking at the ground between them.

“That was sort of the point.”

They didn’t discuss it further. That kind of reaction must have come from past experience, and Geralt didn’t want to pry. Maybe he should have, but it was strange to suddenly see past the bravado and the cocksure attitude of his companion. No wonder he was so good at running away. 

Instead of talking, they waited for a bit, sitting in the tall grass as the sun slowly set. When Jaskier’s breathing quieted and his frame uncoiled, Geralt stood up and offered him a hand, which he accepted with a sheepish smile.

“Now, let’s see how you dodge…”

*

Jaskier woke up with a start and a crick in his neck. He hadn’t meant to fall back asleep, but Geralt had been driving in silence, focused on his destination, and the lack of noise had lulled him. He missed his ukulele dearly, and he hoped the frontier town that had Geralt on edge had some shop where he could find anything musical.

The cast on his arm itched, but Triss had said to leave it on at least a month, and it hadn’t been that long yet. Even if it certainly felt like it. His fingers were eager to compose and turn into tune every word he jotted down in his battered notebooks. Geralt had started gathering pens for him, once he realized that it meant some moments of silence, only disturbed by muttered lyrics and the soft scratching of the pen on the page.

He quite liked his peace, that witcher, but he had the potential to be a good friend, Jaskier thought. He had wits and humor, even if he pretended to be dumb most of the time. Defense mechanism; Jaskier could respect that. 

Geralt had been training him as best he could for the past few days, but Jaskier could still sense how tense he was about what lay ahead. Something bad had happened there, or was going to happen. But there was apparently no other way out of the woods and into Nevada.

They stopped on the outskirts of the town, where the road was covered in tar again. Geralt took an old chest plate out of his weapon stash. It looked like a military bulletproof vest, and Jaskier didn’t even have time to utter a question that Geralt had already passed it over his head. It settled heavily on his shoulders, the leather and metal hot and rigid.

“Just in case,” was the only grunted explanation he got. He let Geralt adjust the straps on his flanks. 

“You really are expecting trouble,” Jaskier commented; and now he was even more curious to visit that town that had his witcher so spooked. “What if they aim for my head?” he asked, just for the pleasure of seeing Geralt’s face scrunch up in worry.

“Then run faster,” the witcher deadpanned. “And zigzag.” 

One night, after yet another sparring lesson, they had settled that Jaskier’s best defense was to flee – so basically what he had been doing all this time.

It was late when they finally entered the town, separately, to ease Geralt’s mind. Jaskier was on foot, looking like a very unlikely hiker, but nobody even raised an eyebrow at the checkpost. It was probably the fact that he was unarmed which seemed more suspicious than anything else. When he reached the main street, he realized that most of the people there wore some sort of armor or protection over well-worn flannels and jackets. 

Geralt followed behind in the car, trusting the tired looking guards not to bother checking the back of the truck. 

The town was everything Jaskier had hoped for, at night in the woods. It had hotels and stores, and more importantly life, music and lights, people greeting each other and laughing in the street. Jaskier briefly wondered just what the witcher had been afraid of, but he didn’t take the vest off, and didn’t try to rejoin Geralt until the other man had signaled to him that he could.

Then he heard the whispers, about “the fucking witcher,” and “the Butcher, coming to murder them all.” Jaskier wasn’t the target of their hostility, so he did his best not to react. He could see, further down the street, that Geralt was also pretending not to hear them, even if his body language spoke volumes.

They regrouped in a back alley, and Jaskier couldn’t contain his excitement. 

“First I’m going to eat like a starving man,” he said, listing the things he wanted to do. “I’ll check the stores and buy a nice instrument to humiliate Valdo in Vegas. Then I’ll get a room and hope they have hot water, and…”

“And how are you going to afford all that?” Geralt remarked with a small smile. Right, there was no way he could steal all that and remain free, there were too many guards patrolling the town.

“I don’t know, I’ll charm someone?” Jaskier shrugged and winked at him. 

“I might be able to help with the instrument,” Geralt offered.

If there was one thing Jaskier didn’t expect, it was to see Geralt’s bargaining skills at work. Up to this point, he had either seen him begrudgingly pay or downright loot anytime he needed supplies. But, as Jaskier followed him silently in a pawn shop, he argued over the price and managed to exchange a flimsy looking knife against an old acoustic guitar gathering dust on the wall.

It made Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with envy; the wood was slightly chipped and it was missing two strings, but the musician still accepted it with grabby hands as soon as they left the shop, turning it over and looking at Geralt in awe.

“I owed you,” Geralt explained, answering the silent question. “Also, I threatened to stab him in the eye, in retaliation for last time when he sold me blanks instead of live bullets.” 

Jaskier laughed at that, and briefly hugged Geralt as a thank you. He winced when he felt the other man still and tense.

“Thanks,” he repeated. 

“Now you can get yourself some nice hotel room with your music,” Geralt shrugged. 

It took some repairs (he had spare strings from the ukulele) and a lot of tuning, in the corner of a restaurant, but Jaskier was confident he would be able to busk that evening. He still had very limited movement in his left hand, but it didn’t hurt anymore, and a crowd of drunks wasn’t hard to charm anyway, he would only need something simple and easy to sing along.

Most of the people in the room were men convinced the government was lying to them about the monsters, and the pollution, who had settled as far as they could from civilization. Some were loggers, but the majority were poachers, selling creatures pelts and organs either in town or further north. It was apparently a lucrative (and dangerous) business.

And so Jaskier didn’t really get the constant mutterings he could hear about Geralt – the Butcher. Jaskier knew he had a warrant against him, but he was also pretty sure most of the crowd out there also had one. 

“I’m meeting the governor tonight,” Geralt briefly told him before his set, at the back of the restaurant. He had insisted they weren’t seen together, and Jaskier was starting to get why. 

“The eyes guy?” Jaskier asked, raising his head from his guitar repairs. 

“Hmm,” Geralt confirmed. He hid his way too recognizable hair under a dark hoodie and slipped out into the night.

Something didn’t feel right, but Jaskier shook it off, thinking it was just Geralt’s uneasiness getting to him. So far the townspeople had been quite unwelcoming, but no one had actually attempted to harm the witcher. They pointed and whispered in his wake, but they also skittered away when he approached.

*

The streets were thankfully empty at night, as Geralt approached the town hall with unhurried steps, holding the blue cooler full of eyes. He wasn’t eager to meet again with the man who called himself the governor of these parts – Falwick was just another bandit the government decided to credit with a title to pretend they had the situation under control. He had been extorting money and, more worryingly, monster parts from travelers for years now.

There were more guards stationed on the steps, looking bored and tired. Geralt nodded his greetings and they made no move to stop him. Either they knew he was coming, or they just couldn’t care less. That should have been his first warning that something wasn’t right, but he wanted to get it over with and leave this place as quickly as he could. 

The building was mostly empty at that hour, and the door to the governor’s office was open. The back wall was covered in trophies – cockatrice tail, griffin claws – and pictures of successful hunts. The man always had a sick fascination for monsters. Or maybe it was just the killing that he liked.

As soon as Falwick saw Geralt, he stood up from his desk and gestured for him to come in. He wore a dark suit with medals pinned to the lapel; medals that probably amounted to nothing, but he liked the effect it had on people, and how official it made him look. 

He greeted Geralt with a sly smile and opened arms, but the witcher stayed on the other side of the room, and put the dirty cooler right on top of the papers cluttering the desk.

“What, no small talk?” he laughed, peeking inside the blue box. The stench was becoming hard to stomach, but he was apparently satisfied with what he saw. 

“I need the right of passage,” Geralt said. “One car.” 

“Still with that dirty old pickup?” he mocked. 

Geralt gritted his teeth and looked at the wall above the governor’s greasy head. 

“Do we have a deal?” Geralt asked, already annoyed with the older man’s theatrics.

“Well…” he started – and that was his second warning; Geralt suddenly regretted leaving his guns in the car. “That would have been enough last year, but…”

“Tell me what you want, I’ll go hunt,” Geralt assured.

“… now that there is a price on your head…” the governor continued, moving around the desk and closer to Geralt, his smile getting bigger, but never reaching his eyes. “It would be a bad investment on my part if I let you go.” 

He had to get out, now. Safe passage be damned, maybe if they cut through the forest, they could find a way to cross the river, maybe they could… 

“Guards!” Falwick called, his voice even, no display of emotion on his weaselly face. 

Geralt could have fought his way out of this trap, even without his guns, but… it would have meant killing so many innocents. Most of the guards looked famished, and some of them were still kids, barely out of childhood. He could have fought, but he would have hated himself for it.

They got the drop on him and some part of him let them.

*

Geralt woke up in a cramped cell with a concussion and too tight handcuffs on his wrists, chained to the bench. They must have kicked him once he was down, because the pain was bad, even by his standards. The worst of it started from the back of his head and circled his skull all the way to his right eye. He could feel crusty blood on his nape and down the collar of his shirt.

He briefly wondered what Jaskier was up to. He probably had gotten enough money to afford a room; maybe he was sleeping, or enjoying that bath he had been talking about earlier. Geralt certainly hoped he didn’t try and find him, because he wouldn’t be able to protect him in his current state.

At least he was alone – no drunk yelling in the nearby cell, no Jaskier singing his ear off with the same song over and over again. He settled as best he could, despite the awkward angle he was bent at, and the never abating throbbing in his head.

He’d think of an escape plan later. 

*

Geralt woke up confused, his whole body aching, until his brain sluggishly caught up, and he remembered his current predicament. He was usually better at blocking physical discomforts, but right now it felt like his brain was pulsing behind his eyes, and that didn’t help him focus at all. 

There were loud voices, arguing in the corridor leading to the cells. Someone wasn’t happy about being detained and was struggling against the guards leading him.

As they got closer, Geralt realized it was Jaskier he heard, and he sounded drunk; just what the hell did that idiot do to get arrested… He was loud and obnoxious, and Geralt could sense his headache coming back in full force. 

“Why are you picking on honest citizens? I did nothing wrong!” he ranted. “You should focus on the vampire infestation in this country, I’m telling you, it’s getting out of hand, why are you not… oof…”

He was interrupted when the guard pushed him forward into the dark cell. The door clanked behind him. 

“It’s not vampires, you know,” Geralt said from where he sat in the corner.

Even in the darkness, he could see Jaskier flinch at his voice, and then relax slightly. 

“Geralt! You’re here!” Jaskier exclaimed, a bit too loudly for comfort. 

He moved closer, his feet shuffling unsteadily. He reeked of sweat and alcohol.

“I was afraid they’d put me in another cell, or even a different jail…”

“You got arrested on purpose?” Geralt wasn’t sure he heard him correctly, because that made no sense at all. 

“Hush, witcher, don’t ruin my plan,” Jaskier said.

He moved carefully in the dark until his shins hit the wooden plank of a bench, then he sat down next to Geralt. 

“So what happened?” Jaskier asked conversationally, as if it was totally normal to get arrested just to meet up with his… what? Driver? They barely knew each other. Jaskier really was a strange fellow, and he couldn’t understand what went on in his head when his own was hurt that much.

“The governor changed the deal,” Geralt growled, suddenly angry that he had failed to see it coming. It was hardly the first time that he’d been double-crossed, but this time he should have been expecting it.

Jaskier nodded in the dark, his face a mere outline in the half light coming from the tiny window in the door. “I heard he’s after the reward money,” he said. 

“You did?” Geralt couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice. He hadn’t been expecting the news to travel that fast. 

“Drunk people in crowded pubs are hardly the best to keep secrets,” Jaskier explained. “That’s why I knew I had to do something. Couldn’t let them ship you to a federal prison or whatever they’re planning to do with you.”

“Probably execution,” Geralt corrected. He’d had it coming anyway.

“What? No! They can’t kill an innocent man!” Jaskier sputtered, indignant. “Don’t you get a trial or something?” 

“They don’t need one, I’m guilty.” Geralt let his head hang low, his untied hair hiding his face. “Maybe that’s for the best,” he added.

He wasn’t expecting Jaskier to try and slap some sense into him, and the blow to his cheek left him dazed and surprised. 

“Shut up,” Jaskier said through gritted teeth. “You are a good man and you deserve better.” 

“I am a killer and I deserve pain,” Geralt muttered stubbornly.

It was strange to say out loud what he had been telling himself all these years.

Jaskier moved again, and this time Geralt caught his wrist before he could raise it, despite the limited range of movement the chain would allow.

“You’re not handcuffed,” Geralt remarked.

It wasn’t a question, merely an observation, something that might be useful for later. He didn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand in case he decided to hit him again. Drunk Jaskier was tactile, but angry Jaskier was just mean apparently. 

“Then tell me what happened,” Jaskier pleaded. “Tell me I haven’t been traveling with another murderer like last time.” (Geralt didn’t comment but made a mental note to ask Jaskier about that later – if he survived.)

“Hmm,” Geralt said, and he released his grip on Jaskier, letting his bound hands fall in his lap. “What do you know about the I-10? What do you think happened?” he asked. 

“They say the Butcher of the I-10 killed seven men, unprovoked,” Jaskier said. He didn’t seem spooked or disgusted. In his mouth, it sounded like another story, a scary tale you told kids around the fire. “They say that he went mad – that he still is.” 

“Well it was six men and one woman, and I wasn’t mad.” Geralt snapped.

Jaskier looked at him, unblinking, frozen as if the slightest movement might spook him into silence. 

“It was years ago,” Geralt started, his voice barely audible, like it was some big secret he didn’t want anyone but Jaskier to hear. “I was traveling west, and I stopped for a while in a settlement around what remained of the Interstate-10. I tried to help, rid the town of a kikimore which was preying on the trappers.”

For once, Jaskier didn’t interrupt to ask for details and descriptions – either he knew about that monster already, or he deemed it unimportant – the real monster of the story was Geralt, after all. 

“They seemed happy enough to have me, and the man who served as mayor of the settlement actually paid me for once.” Geralt smiled at the memory; those were better times indeed. “And then I found a woman, in the woods. She had been chased away, they tried to kill her, make her disappear. She escaped and somehow survived. She was strong,” Geralt recalled, “and fierce.” 

“She wanted revenge, and I was unwilling to help – not a gun for hire,” he reminded, as if to persuade himself – “so she found help elsewhere and… let’s just say there was a standoff and a gunfight, and a lot of people ended up dead because of me. I killed her with her own gun. I even kept it like some sick trophy,” Geralt said, his shoulders slumping with the weight of the memory.

“What! That’s it? No, Geralt, you need to give me more than that!” Jaskier sounded indignant, and for a brief instant, Geralt resented that curiosity. “Why did they chase her in the first place? What was her name?” There was a note of despair in his voice, as if it really mattered to him somehow.

“She was called Renfri. Her father was led to believe by his right hand that she was possessed by the devil and needed to be eliminated. 

“Was she? Possessed?” Jaskier asked in a breath.

“There is no such thing,” Geralt answered. 

“Right, like the vampires.” Jaskier shook his head. 

“She was human and she didn’t deserve her fate.”

“Just, and hear me out on that one, like you,” Jaskier said, very serious this time. “You were at the wrong place at the wrong time, but think about all the people you saved after that. You can’t just quit. And anyway, you promised to escort me to Vegas and protect me during the competition.” 

He squeezed his biceps lightly. Geralt had done no such thing, it was more of a very tacit understanding, but Jaskier had a point. He couldn’t help anyone if he was dead. 

“I wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for you,” Jaskier continued, and Geralt was pretty sure he was smiling at him, even if he couldn’t really make out his face. 

“Hardly true,” Geralt objected. “If anything, I put you in danger just by making you a target by association. Look where you are right now!” 

“Without you, I would probably have been killed by a psycho on the road by now.” Jaskier let out a shaky laugh.

“Hmm,” Geralt said. And that sound meant a lot, more than words could convey. It meant that he’d try to hate himself a little less, and that maybe Jaskier was right, and there were worse monsters than him roaming the country. He just made a throaty sound though, and hoped Jaskier would understand. 

“Good,” Jaskier whispered. “Now let’s get on with my plan.”

Jaskier would have probably reveled in the look on Geralt’s face, when he kneeled between his legs, fumbled an instant with the keyhole and suddenly his handcuffs opened with a muted click. 

“How…” he whispered, rubbing his wrists and letting the chains fall to the ground.

“Let’s just say that I’m less drunk than the guards thought, and I’m very good with my hands.” 

“You lifted the guards’ key,” Geralt repeated, incredulous.

He stood up and raised a hand to feel the back of his head, feeling crusted blood and a throbbing bump the size of a goose egg.

“What did you get arrested for?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier moved to the metal door and he pulled out a whole bunch of keys from his pockets. He tried the first one, muttering when it didn’t work.

“And how did you smuggle that in?” 

“Hmm,” Jaskier said, not taking his eyes off the keyhole. “Public indecency, starting a brawl and biting a guard. And you’d be amazed how people overlook things when they think you might throw up on them.” 

Geralt stifled a laugh, surprised and amazed by that turn of events. Jaskier had to be resourceful to have come this far mostly on his own – but after all, real danger only followed witchers, not bright-eyed musicians.

The door clicked and Jaskier pushed it open. 

“Just like that,” Geralt marveled.

Jaskier turned to give him a ridiculous thumbs up. He was probably grinning like an idiot as well, but Geralt found out that standing made his vision swim. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Jaskier told him, moving aside as if he was expecting the witcher to take the lead.

“I wasn’t exactly conscious when they brought me in,” Geralt confessed, annoyed at that personal failure. He remembered a blinding pain at the back of his head, and trying to stay upright, to no avail.

“They thought I was drunk,” Jaskier said. “Well, I was a tiny bit drunk, had to, to play the part. Anyway, I can get us out. I think.”

That didn’t sound very reassuring, but Geralt stayed silent. It was probably their best shot; sneaking out before anyone could raise the alarm, avoiding a fight altogether.

*

When Jaskier had heard drunk patrons laugh about the Butcher having been caught, it had unexpectedly made his blood boil. He hadn’t thought about anything, really – just that he had to do something, and fast. He might have panicked a little, but that led him to Geralt’s cell, so he was counting that as a win.

Geralt had looked in a bad way in the cramped cell. His hair was matted and in the dark it looked like blood. They must have kicked him in the head a few too many times, because he seemed convinced he was a monster and ready to accept his sentence with his head down.

That wasn’t the Geralt he knew – even if they only met a few weeks ago – he was fierce, snarky and resilient. He was a complicated man, underneath his brutish ways, and Jaskier liked him for it; that was why it was disheartening to hear him doubt himself so openly. Maybe they had drugged him, or maybe it was just the consequences of his head wound. 

The way he talked about Renfri… He really felt responsible for her death, holding on to that borrowed gun as a reminder of the one he had failed to save. That certainly wasn’t healthy, but it was understandable at least. So his overreaction when Jaskier handled the chrome gun wasn’t just some weird pride about being rescued by a musician after all.

Right now, he needed Geralt upright and coherent at least until they managed to escape. Jaskier was relatively confident he could find a way out but not what he could do if they encountered resistance. They hadn’t even stripped him of his chest plate, which was stupid on their part – to be fair, he had been quite annoying on purpose and they’d been more than happy to quickly throw him in the Butcher’s cell. In retrospect, that seemed like a dirty move on their part, but that was exactly what he had hoped for.

So far, so good, he told himself, as he could feel Geralt watching his every move with dazed eyes. It was a bit worrying, but there wasn’t anything he could do just yet. They got out of the cell and down the poorly lit corridor, careful not to make any noise. Jaskier hoped all the guards had retreated for the night, letting the annoying drunk and the dangerous Butcher kill each other in their cell, solving both problems for them.

Jaskier suddenly felt Geralt grip the straps at the back of his jacket and pull him backward. He scrambled to follow the sudden change of direction without tripping, doing all he could not to make a sound. Geralt pushed him into an even darker corridor, and that was only then that he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

They stayed squished against the wall and let the guard pass. He was thankfully alone and not overzealous in his watch, but if he went to check the empty cell, they’d have to make a run for it. Jaskier quickly raised a hand and checked the back of Geralt’s head, happy when his fingers didn’t encounter a gaping wound. The witcher caught his hand after an instant and gently pushed him away.

“If they spot us, run,” Geralt whispered in his ear. “Don’t turn around, don’t wait for me.”

And Jaskier didn’t dare argue, even if he wanted to. He just nodded silently and clasped Geralt’s forearm, not intending to let go before they made it out.

They found a door leading to a back alley nearly by accident and without raising an alarm. The only worrying thing at this point, was the way Geralt was tilting to the left, as if his balance was shot. Jaskier slid under his arm and tried to help him stay upwards, straining under the weight with a huff. 

“Where to?” Jaskier asked. His instinct was telling him to make a run to the car, but it might be a trap, or maybe they had seized it and it wasn’t at the entrance of the town anymore. Could they even cross the border without the eyes guy’s agreement? 

“Roach,” Geralt muttered. “But the keys…”

“Maybe I can sneak back in and…” Jaskier started.

“No,” Geralt snapped. “No need,” he repeated, softer this time. “Just, help me get to the parking lot.” 

“You’re heavy,” Jaskier remarked, because Geralt was leaning more and more heavily on him. He hoped he wasn’t more injured that he let on.

“Sorry.” 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you apologize for being a massive wall of muscles.” Jaskier laughed and squeezed his arm.

*

The escape was a blur. Walking and talking hurt Geralt’s brain, even if Jaskier was uncharacteristically quiet and efficient. He knew he’d be alright after a good night’s sleep, and it was a shame he couldn’t enjoy a room in town. Sleeping in the car it was then. Where was the car? 

Jaskier helped him down, and he realized they were in the parking lot where he had parked Roach. 

“What now?” Jaskier asked, looking disheveled and tired in the morning light. 

“Look under the front right fender,” Geralt said from where he sat, letting his head rest on the cool metal of the car. He didn’t trust himself to stand up just now. Passing out was the last thing they needed.

It took some fumbling on Jaskier’s part, but soon he was back with the spare key and a triumphant look on his face. Geralt knew they should discuss their options now; probably backtrack into the woods and look for another way to cross the border. He should have made sure his guns were ready, and they hadn’t been followed.

But he was very tired, and his head pounded something fierce. Getting into the car sapped all his energy, and he passed out as soon as his head hit the headrest.

*

Geralt was still asleep when Jaskier came back; it was around noon, but the car was in the shade and the windows rolled down, so he wasn’t too worried about him cooking inside like a dog forgotten in a parking lot. Seeing him asleep like that felt weird, but Jaskier was confident his brain wasn’t leaking or anything; he was probably just exhausted, and the concussion had forced him to rest. 

He lightly rapped his fingers against the windshield, and smiled when Geralt twitched in his sleep. He opened the passenger door and climbed in awkwardly, putting his gifted guitar, now snugly packed in his old case, between his legs.

“Hmf?” Geralt asked. 

“All good.” Jaskier waved his concern away. “Here, have some food.” 

He dropped in Geralt’s lap a brown bag filled with bread and leftovers pastries, and for once, Geralt dug in and munched in silence. 

“I’m pretty sure your governor isn’t well loved around here, because he was the laughing stock of the town this morning. Two prisoners escaped from the town hall jail apparently,” Jaskier explained with a smirk. “Can you track my finger?” he asked, and Geralt grunted something that didn’t sound really polite.

He still followed Jaskier’s finger, reassuring the musician that he didn’t have any brain damage. Jaskier knew he was probably talking too loudly and too fast, but he was so excited.

“I have good news by the way, I found us a way to get into Nevada without your weirdo governor’s help,” he announced, not even trying to hide the pride and smugness in his voice.

Geralt tried to sit up and frowned. “There is no other way, Falwick…”

“Is a prick,” Jaskier concluded for him. “Nobody likes him, and that’s why there are alternative routes.” 

He looked at some smudge scribbling on his hand and said, “We can cross the river at 3PM. I have the address and the password.”

“The password to what?” Geralt insisted. He didn’t seem out of it anymore. Instead he was back to his angry, grumpy self, which was somehow a relief.

“The secret drawbridge of course!” Jaskier exclaimed. Geralt looked at him as if he had grown a second head, so he patted him on the arm. “You’ll see. I guess you don’t want me to drive?” he continued, and Geralt just growled at that idea. “Thought so. Rest while you can, I’ll give you directions when it’s time.” 

“Why isn’t Falwick hunting us?” Geralt asked. “He knows my car.” He wasn’t patting it or calling it Roach anymore, and Jaskier took it as another good sign.

“Let’s just say he’s otherwise occupied right now...” Jaskier said with a mischievous smile. 

“What did you do?” Geralt looked curious and anxious at the same time.

“Me? Nothing,” Jaskier protested. “But maybe the keys to the governor’s private collection got into the wrong hands. And then maybe a fire started, terrible fate really…”

Geralt let his head rest for a moment, chuckling slightly as Jaskier told him about Falwick’s irate face this morning, shouting orders and sputtering threats. 

“Too bad he didn’t die in the fire,” Geralt remarked under his breath. 

“That’s the spirit!” Jaskier cheered. “The poachers don’t like him much, they say he’s not paying fair price. I’m pretty sure they’ll get rid of him sooner than later.”

Geralt didn’t ask if he ran into trouble – he was there, after all, unharmed and merely disheveled and sweaty after a night of mischief. 

“How long did I sleep? How did you manage to make friends so quickly?” Geralt wondered, and his voice had an edge of disbelief.

“You just have to talk to people,” Jaskier explained with a shrug. “Without threatening them.” And when Geralt still looked unconvinced, Jaskier insisted, “I told you I’m good at making friends – and lovers,” he added with a wink. “I mean look at us, we’re friends now, right?”

Jaskier wasn’t expecting validation, but honestly, after he had gone as far as getting thrown into jail to rescue his sorry ass, the least Geralt could do was call him his friend. The witcher didn’t deny it, and grunted something absolutely non-committal that Jaskier chose to believe meant, “Yes, we’re friends now.” 

*

Around three they were driving slowly on a small path along the river. Despite Geralt’s stubborn uneasiness to trust Jaskier’s new friends, they didn’t run into trouble. The guards let them get out of town by looking the other way, and the men at the drawbridge seemed friendly enough once they heard the password. They were playing cards in front of a small wooden cabin, and cheered when Jaskier got out of the car. One of them had apparently liked his songs and his antics at the restaurant the previous night.

Geralt still had that slightly dazed look in his eye, as if he wasn’t sure he wasn’t merely hallucinating the whole escape. He was still grumbling unhappily when they lowered the flimsy looking bridge, and when they drove above the white water of the wide river. 

“Not everyone is trying to kill you,” Jaskier said once they got to the other bank, and he had finished waving goodbye through the window.

“Did they know they were helping the Butcher escape?” Geralt growled. 

“Hmm,” Jaskier hesitated. “I might have failed to mention that clearly.” 

Geralt nodded in silence, as if he was comforted in his self-pity. 

“I might also have sung your praises, the other night.” Jaskier smirked. “That song you hate.” 

“I don’t… Your songs are…” Geralt started, unsure, looking at the road and not as his companion. “Your songs are good. Maybe. You create something.” 

And if that didn’t sound like the best compliment he could get out of him, Jaskier was ready to accept it anyway.

“Do you think I could take off the vest now? It’s heavy,” Jaskier complained, as he fretted in the passenger seat, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Something whizzed past the car and hit the side mirror. Geralt swore and just drove faster, putting some distance between them and whoever was shooting at them from the other side of the river.

“Or maybe I’ll wait a little bit more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a tentative chapter count, since next stop is Vegas :)


End file.
